


A Gentleman's Wager

by eratospen



Category: Original Work
Genre: Belly Kink, Body Worship, Feeding Kink, M/M, Regency Romance, Stuffing, Weight Gain, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-07-28 04:53:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20058331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eratospen/pseuds/eratospen
Summary: Regency-era male weight gain, featuring multiple characters. If this doesn't sound like your kind of kink, then this story is not for you.Willowby Court is a well-known gentleman's club in the heart of London. There, future lords and leaders of thetonrub elbows, make alliances, and on occasion dine with the Prince Regent himself. But when one of the more foolish lordlings manages to insult the vain Prince, a wager is struck that will have a massive impact on their lives...and their waistlines.Incomplete.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I am going ahead and re-posting all my work on AO3, starting with a collaboration with the lovely [MISTWILM](https://www.deviantart.com/mistwilm). A Gentleman's Wager is written rp-style and contains everything from moderate to extreme weight gain. (Though we both veer toward the larger end of the spectrum.)
> 
> We'll be moving through several couples with date-stamps to show whether we're in the "present" (1812) or the "future" (1814). So if you get confused over fluctuating sizes, be sure to check the datestamp at the beginning of the chapter.
> 
> Comments and requests are welcome.

**1812**  
**The Willowby Gentleman’s Club**  
**(affectionately termed Willowby Court to its noble members)**  
  
  
**An Insult is Given**  
  
The wager happened the way these things often do: in the heat of the moment, as the result of far too much wine.  
  
It was getting late, the dinner party stretching into its third hour. Candles guttered low in their crystal bases and conversation had slowed to a lazy river. The long table was packed with young men, nearly every member of the elite club in attendance.  
  
With the Prince Regent as royal guest, how could any of them dare refuse?  
  
Prinny sat at the head of the table, haloed by golden candlelight. His round cheeks—kindly called cherubic, though never to his face—worked as he forked and chewed and swallowed, forked and chewed and swallowed, making his way through another dish of flaky pastry. The other young men had tapped out ages ago. There had been countless courses over the three long hours. Countless plates of fine food, countless glasses of wine, countless opportunities to get over-stuffed and muddle-brained and ready to _leave_ what had begun to feel like a prison.  
  
But of course, no one could leave while the Prince Regent still ate, and against all odds, Prinny seemed content to keep eating until he burst.  
  
Finally, one of their newest, youngest, and stupidest lordlings couldn’t keep his mouth properly shut. “Good God,” he muttered to his left-hand neighbor, “how can he still be hungry? Even the fattest man has to be sated at _some_ point.”  
  
His slurred words were too loud and the tired conversation buzzing around the table too quiet. Instantly, the room went still. Pin-drop silent. Scores of eyes swung his way, and the young lord looked up in horror to realize the Regent was staring him down from across the table, eyes glittering like polished stones, fat cheeks puffed out in fury.  
  
The lordling slouched back in his seat. “I…I beg your pardon,” he said, stammering over the words. His own faced was flushed a florid red. “I did not think before I— I am drunk!” he added. “I am very drunk! I did not mean a word of it!”  
  
Silence.  
  
No one else dared move or speak. The Prince Regent was known for having a capricious temper and a tendency to be unpredictable where his vanity was concerned. Ever since he’d begun gaining weight—rounding out from the belly like a great big bird puffing itself up to twice its size—he’d been _particularly_ difficult to anticipate. There was no telling what the (yes, fat) future king would do now.  
  
Prinny set his fork aside with a too-loud clatter. He reached for his stained napkin and touched it delicately to his mouth, wiping away perhaps a quarter of the crumbs gathered there. Sitting at the head of the club’s lavish table, stuffed like a Christmas turkey with all the trimmings until his fine clothes all but creaked around him, he managed to look both regal and ridiculous at once. Truly fat, his over-packed belly a round dome perched on his lap, buttons straining valiantly around the circumference.  
  
Deliberately, as if daring them all to look, Prinny dropped one hand to the crest of his gut and gave it a careful pat.  
  
“I can’t help but think,” Prinny said, leaning back indolently in his creaking chair, “that you would never say such a thing if you had the pleasure of being fat yourself.”  
  
His words came out light, teasing, but there was an audible sharpness beneath them that all the cleverest young men at the table instantly recognized. _Danger_, it said. _DANGER._  
  
The stupid lordling of course missed every sign, instead taking what looked like a peace offering. “No, of course!” he babbled, visibly relieved. “I have never been fat myself, so I have no idea! I was speaking from ignorance. But, ah, naturally,” he added when Prinny subtly narrowed his eyes, “_naturally_ it must be a pleasure to be so fat. An honor, even! A very honorable state!” He was talking faster and faster now, as if unable to stop the flow of panicked words. “Such dignity, such grace, such…gravid presence. I only _wish_ I could be as fat as you.”  
  
Prinny raised a single brow.  
  
“I-if only to understand just how much of a pleasure it truly is.”  
  
“Are the rest of you in agreement?” Prinny asked, both hands on his prodigious gut now. He kept rubbing his palms over the satin-covered dome as if daring them to look—or maybe daring them to look away? It was so bloody hard to tell when he was in this sort of mood! The subtle _rasp rasp_ of each taunting rub was very loud in the petrified dining room. “_Well? _Do you or do you not agree that I am honored to be so…fat?”  
  
There was a low rustle and clearing of throats. Then one of the slightly older young lords said, “Of course we agree. We agree to a man: everything about you is honorable.”  
  
It was a good response, but not what the Prince Regent was looking for. “And yet even though you believe it to be an honor and a pleasure to be as I am, you have no experience to speak of. You cannot understand your own future king because you have not lived as he has. Do not flatter yourself to think I missed the way all of you,” his bright-eyed gaze swept the entire long table, taking in the dozens of young lords from the very best families in the kingdom, “shifted and yawned and wished to be away from table as I ate. Do not assume I missed the way you pushed around your food and prayed I would soon be done with mine. You have no concept of what it is to have a true hunger. How can you be expected to keep my favor—to keep your own honorable families at the heights of high society—if you cannot comprehend so simple a thing?”  
  
Silence again. The trap was clear as day for even the stupidest amongst them, but no one yet dared to try to spring it. A single misspoken word could lead to lasting damage for each noble house here: the young future dukes and earls and viscounts gathered about the Willowby table were powerful and rich, but none of that made any difference without the king’s favor.  
  
And now the future king was sitting there, rubbing his bulbous gut, and daring them to make a move.  
  
Finally, one of the young men cleared his throat, drawing Prinny’s attention. “We cannot possibly hope to understand,” he said, low baritone clear. He didn’t look to his fellows on the left or right of him; there was only one way forward that wouldn’t doom them all. “But there’s not a man here who doesn’t wish to. So, your grace,” he said, looking steadily at the man who could shape all of their futures at a whim, “what would you have us do to prove ourselves?”  
  
The room was so still, the sound of carriage wheels rolling over cobblestones outside could be heard. The shift and creak of a floorboard as servants moved subtly through the huge club was as loud as a gunshot. Even the candles guttering in their bases seemed loud as shouts, and every breath was held as they waited for the ax to fall.  
  
Prinny simply smiled.  
  
  
**A Wager is Struck**  
  
The rules of the “voluntary wager” the Prince Regent offered as penance were simple.  
  
Each young man would come to the head of the table and draw a number randomly from a hat. The numbers ranged from small to large: from 5 all the way up to a jaw-dropping 500. There were more numbers than bodies at the table, to ensure a truly randomized spread.  
  
Once a number was drawn, it became a _goal_. Anyone below 100 had until the next season’s start—a full year—to add that much weight to his person. Anyone above had an additional one to two years to see his part of the wager through.  
  
At season’s end, the Prince Regent himself would return with the royal doctor to see to weighing and measuring. Should the newly fattened young lord meet his target, he would be given Prinny’s favor: and, in essence, a golden ticket at court, which would impact his family for generations to come.  
  
Should the young lord fail to meet his goal… Well, then the wager would be considered forfeit, and the Prince Regent would be _deeply disappointed._ No one had trouble interpreting exactly how bad that would be for themselves and their families; everyone knew exactly how long and vindictive a memory the capricious Prinny could have.  
  
The nervous energy was high as a servant brought the tall dove-colored hat full of numbers to the Regent. Young men shifted about in their chairs, trying to imagine themselves ten pounds heavier. Twenty. Fifty. _A hundred_. Gazes kept darting to Prinny’s round middle, bulging proud and vulgar against the straining buttons of his fall-front breeches. What _would_ it be like to be that fat? What would it be like to potentially be even fatter? Would they all become laughingstocks of the _ton_? Was it even possible to stuff your way into a rounded waistline in a year? Could they truly go through with this?  
  
Tension rose with every second as Prinny took the hat and gave it a solid shake. The numbers inside rustled like whispers of dread. Then, a smile spreading across his fat face, the Prince Regent turned to look down the long table at all the most noble and respected peers of the realm.  
  
“So,” he said, sounding pleased. “Who will be first?”


	2. Patrick & Francis: Future

**1814 (two years after the wager)**  
**An exclusive house party**  
**Patrick and Francis**  
  
  
**Preparing for Francis’s Final Weigh-In**  
  
Patrick stood in front of the mirror, staring critically at his reflection.  
  
He was half-dressed in his finest clothes, the cut and color designed to accentuate what had once been an athletic figure. It was funny—even after all this time, he couldn’t seem to think of himself as anything but a Corinthian. Charming, dashing, the most handsome men in most any room with a body that could be mistaken for one of the Greek statues littering any number of gardens. The tightly-fitted line of his clothes once accentuated his trim waist, broad shoulders, and defined musculature.  
  
Now…  
  
Well, now the usual cut just made him look even more like what he was: a former athlete gone to pot, struggling to barely hold on to the memory of who he’d once been.  
  
“You know,” Patrick called back into the main room where his lover was puttering about, “you’d think at some point I would get used to looking at myself.”  
  
But the thing was, no matter how much he’d come to enjoy the look of soft flesh on his lover, he never could seem to accept the same on himself. The fall-front breeches hugged his calves and thighs like they should (he still had the finest arse in Willowby Court if he was allowed to be vain), but once they hit his waist, everything went to hell. Soft, small rolls spilled over the lip of his breeches, deepening every time he took a breath. There’d be no disguising them with the high-cut waistcoat he’d chosen—every time he so much as twitched, a solid half-inch would push against fabric, making itself known.  
  
And _speaking_ of making itself known…  
  
Patrick sighed and reached down to tug at the front plackard of his breeches, trying to get the flap of cloth up over the bulge of his gut. It was bigger now than it had ever been, spilling out in a modest dome from somewhat softer pecs (that only jiggled a little, thank you very much) to groin. _Filling_ the space in a mortifying way. It was just round enough to draw the eye if he buttoned the breeches over it, and more than big enough to pooch _over_ the waistband if he did not. _It_ jiggled more than a little if he moved too quickly and seemed only too glad to bloat up at the slightest provocation, no matter how many exercises he tried. God only knew how big he’d be if he didn’t work so hard to maintain even this.  
  
Even two years into this mad wager, his gut was Patrick’s greatest enemy. And damned if it didn’t feel like it was intent on growing no matter what he did.  
  
“It’s been a year since my weigh-in,” Patrick said, leaving the mirror behind and wandering back into the room. He had one hand on his exposed gut, giving it a rueful squeeze. “You’d think I wouldn’t be so bloody fat anymore.”  
  
  
The voice of his lover approaching the threshold forced Francis to look up from where he had been tending to one of the many plants he kept about the home, this one being a particularly bright red geranium that he was most pleased with.   
  
He was already dressed for the evening, in dark, rich blue and complementary grey, and he supposed he should have been nervous; the results of him being weighed would affect himself, and his family, for untold years to come. The thing keeping him quietly confident in a favourable outcome, aside from the fact that he had needed to send for his largest clothes to be adjusted only a week ago.  
  
Setting aside the small jug of water he had been so carefully pouring for the geranium, Francis straightened and wandered to meet Patrick at the door. Despite having been steady growing over the years, there were moments he was especially aware of his size. Mostly when walking, as his gait had almost certainly become closer to being referred to as a waddle, with thick thighs rubbing together enough that in a quiet room one might hear the brush of fabric quite keenly, and a belly that, when not cradled by the high cut of his breeches (frankly, even _with_ that containment), would quiver as freely as the rest of him seemed to.   
  
He offered his lover a sympathetic smile as he gazed up at him, putting one plump hand over Patrick's. The gesture would have seemed timid to anyone else, but was just as significant as an embrace between them.  
  
"You have been seated at a table with me for the majority of the time, so there had been much more to tempt you," he offered simply, "Once I am free of this wager, dining will return to normal, and I imagine you'll lose this as easily as ever."  
  
He gave Patrick's stomach a light, illustrative pat, somehow feeling that he may have told the man a terrible lie that neither of them believed.  
  
  
Patrick chuffed a soft laugh. He wanted to believe Francis—Francis was, without a doubt, the smartest and most keenly observant man he had ever met. Patrick couldn’t imagine anyone ever being his equal. And yet they’d both born witness to enough of their friends from the club vowing and failing to shed the weight of Prinny’s bet long after they had passed muster, even with no obvious outside temptations to sway them.  
  
In truth, most of Willowby Court only seemed to grow fatter as time passed. Still. It was a pleasant enough dream.  
  
“Can you imagine?” he asked, gesturing to himself. “Clothing that fits for once. No more need to stretch or strain. No more damned inconvenience.” Or prick to his vanity.  
  
  
Following the motion of Patrick's hand with fond amusement, Francis shook his head. As was his nature, he was always in two minds as to whether the odd teasing word would be welcomed (of course a man would look fatter when drawing attention to his stomach as he so often did), given how the other man had seemed to struggle with the challenge laid before him. A better course of action always seemed to be to reassure his lover; though not because he exhibited insecurity. Everyone knew what a striking man Patrick was, not least Patrick himself.   
  
"If it eases your mind any, you are as magnificent as ever," Francis offered, a faint smile on his lips. "And still far slimmer than the majority, if not all lords in attendance at Willowby Court."   
  
  
That earned a crooked grin. “Ah, a balm for my vanity,” Patrick teased, a dimple flashing in his cheek. The gentle reassurance was very much appreciated. Francis’s opinion mattered more to him than anything, and even though he was sure he’d start tugging fitfully at his shirt or scowling whenever his buttons stretched in an unsightly manner later in the evening, for now this was enough. “You know me too well, love.”  
  
He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Francis’s cheek, one hand falling to squeeze his hip in thanks. It seemed ridiculous to fret and fuss over a few pounds when Francis was set to face the Prince, having been forced to gain quite a lot more.  
  
In fact…  
  
Patrick pulled back just enough to take Francis in. “Are you nervous at all about tonight?”  
  
  
Unable to help himself, Francis offered a timid shrug of a single rounded shoulder, though his smile brightened as he tilted his head just enough to lean into the kiss. Not for the first time, he allowed himself to muse quietly how many others would fight to be in the position he was. Receiving kisses from Patrick, that was, rather than the fact of carrying the additional weight of another person.  
  
He had been no less than methodical in his own approach to the wager laid down by the Prince Regent. Careful estimations, weekly goals to contribute to monthly ones, countless notes, set meal times, and regular reviews of his measurements, not to mention Patrick's assistance, had been his way of ensuring that he did not disappoint when his weight was taken by the physician, and he felt confident in all of it, treating it as a curious experiment.  
  
Francis let a hand drop to the lower curve of his plush belly, cupping it to lift it slightly, as though making his own estimations. "In a manner of speaking, I suppose I am," he admitted. "And I will be disappointed if my method hasn't worked, especially."  
  
  
“I couldn’t see how your method would have failed,” Patrick was quick to reassure. “It was brilliant. Everything was set down to the last detail. Nothing escaped your attention.”  
  
But even without the careful charts and plans and goals…really, all it took was one _look_ at Francis to be reasonably sure he’d managed to hit his target. It was no longer startling to look at him as it once was (as it was startling, sometimes, to look around and see _all_ of his friends in one stage of corpulence to the next) before they spent nearly all of their time together, but sometimes it still caught him off-guard.  
  
A gain of over two hundred pounds would do that to a fellow, he supposed.  
  
Patrick reached out, fingertips brushing a soft line from belly-button down the wide curve of him. All the softness he hated on himself looked frankly beautiful on Francis—which was likely what prompted him to ask, “Do you plan to lose any of it when this is all over?”  
  
  
Francis scrunched his nose at the same moment as he was raising his eyebrows, a habit he was in to adjust his spectacles, and one that was very often followed by him lifting a hand to adjust them _again_. He had been to focused on ensuring he had done everything he could do gain the weight he had drawn that, in truth, he had not yet considered whether he would wish to undo his hard work. He found Patrick's hands explored the growing expanse of his body often enough, and enthusiastically enough, that his attraction shouldn't have been a concern, and yet Francis heard himself say, "Do you think I ought to consider it?"   
  
  
Francis was impossibly adorable. Patrick could feel his smile softening, his expression going warmer. That little movement was so familiar by now he could see it play out on the backs of his lids, and yet every time, he found it charming.  
  
And as for the question…  
  
“Do you _want_ to consider it?” he asked. That was really what was most important, but it only seemed right to add, “Because while I will support any decision you make, I must confess…I would miss this.”  
  
He pressed his fingers into the soft give of Francis’s belly, both hands moving until he could frame the outward swell. He knew every line and mark and dimple by heart, fingernails subtly scratching at a few of his favorites through fine trousers.  
  
Francis wasn’t the largest of the Willowby boys, but he was certainly amongst the top tier now. Wide, lush hips that swayed with every step. Round cheeks and a sweet second chin. Soft breasts resting on rolls and rolls of belly, followed by fat thighs pressing together all the way down to the knee. For someone of Patrick’s inclinations, Francis shouldn’t have been so beautiful, but something about seeing him—helping him—grow so fat made Patrick feel possessive of his body.  
  
Yes, he’d miss this weight in his hands. He’d miss the idea that Francis was _still growing_.  
  
  
The slide of warm, strong hands around the lush folds of his middle made Francis squirm just a touch. Over the two years he had discovered that his ample flesh was far more sensitive than when he had been bordering on skinny. Or perhaps it was simply the evident fascination with which his fattened body was touched.  
  
"I hadn't been planning to," he admitted, taking a small step closer so that the jutting curve of his stomach bumped against Patrick's own darling pot belly. He chuckled, a light, brief noise of shy amusement, as he added, "Not least because I don't imagine my appetite will allow for it now."  
  
Patrick flicked his gaze up, eyes warm. Touching Francis like this would never get old. He remembered the first time he dared—the shock of heat, the connection, the sense of something unexpected and new. They had been friends long before they had become more, and in a strange way, it had been this (the solid bump of flesh against flesh, the sinful weight of gluttony and gain) that had started it all.  
  
“Is it strange for me to say that I am glad?” Patrick asked quietly. “I would miss this.”  
  
  
The gentle, velvet tones of Patrick's voice, his loving gaze, brought colour to Francis' round cheeks, and he shook his head as he timidly slid his arms around the taller man.  
  
"Not at all. Well... Perhaps it might be strange to others. In honesty, I believe I would too," he murmured. Being enveloped in soft warmth, and held by his ever tightening clothing had become a pleasant sensation incredibly quickly, and one he would miss.   
  
  
“Then we are decided,” Patrick said with a teasing quirk of his lips. “No reduction for you. And should nature attempt to reverse what we’ve created together…well, then, we’ll break back into your careful notes and build you back to where we want you pound by pound.”  
  
He wrapped his arms around Francis’s ample waist—letting himself enjoy the drag of his palms. If they had nowhere else to be, perhaps he would tease Francis into allowing him to pluck away his clothing piece by piece, revealing his body in all its glory. Now, however, there was no time for such play.  
  
Still, he enjoyed the sensual drag even as he leaned in to press their foreheads together, chest filled with brimming affection.  
  
  
Francis blushed deeper, the sensuality behind Patrick's words subtle, and utterly enticing. Much as the steady increase in his weight had been for the purpose of the Prince's bet, he'd found an intimacy in the act of gaining with Patrick's assistance. More often than not, he had been offered food from the other man's plate, fed until stuffed round and blissful, bites of rich food chased with sweet kisses. He pressed himself closer against his beautiful, tanned lover at the thought, with the barest hint of a whine in his throat.   
  
As though someone had heard Patrick's thoughts, soft footsteps heralded the arrival of a young footman who cleared his throat at the threshold of the door, dropping his gaze at the embrace he was interrupting.   
  
  
Patrick caught Francis’s gaze and winked, playful, before leaning in to catch his lips in a lingering kiss. He was utterly shameless when it came to their relationship. Baldly flirtatious, even in public where they had to be more discreet, and even more flamboyant in his affection when it was safe to be so.  
  
He was a rake in every way—except that his attention and devotion were squarely placed on one extraordinary man.  
  
But he didn’t linger long, even as a tease. Patrick pulled back, sighing, and let there be space between their bodies again. “I suppose the carriage is ready and we are waiting on me to finish dressing,” he said.  
  
  
"Yes, sir," the young man said meekly, his gaze still on the floor as Francis moved back himself, rosy-cheeked and ever so slightly startled. A terribly private man in contrast to his lover, Francis certainly didn't enjoy the moments they were caught unawares. Mercifully, they were left alone again very quickly.  
  
"Goodness, for a moment I nearly forgot about the rest of this evening," the bespectacled man muttered as he followed Patrick back to the mirror, casting a wary eye back to the door as though expecting to be interrupted again, his hand idly drifting to his lover's lower back.   
  
  
“I should hope not,” Patrick grinned. “If you’re not there tonight to be poked and prodded, you’ll be considered forfeit and all this hard work will be for nothing.”  
  
Not that he’d had to do anything particularly strenuous. Feeding Francis bits and bites of food, massaging his bloated belly, helping him pry off his straining waistcoats and roll awkwardly into bed every night… It had been a _pleasure_ through and through.  
  
Though speaking of straining waistcoats…  
  
He sighed as he briefly caught sight of himself again, then deliberately turned away so he didn’t have to watch what had become a daily ritual. Gripping the edges of his trousers, Patrick sucked in as much of his gut as he could before yanking the cloth closed. He had to practically flatten a soft squish of persistent fat to do so, manfully struggling to get the buttons done up before he lost his breath.  
  
Once the first set of buttons were done, he let the breath out again in a whoosh, belly swelling forward. Little crescents of flesh were visible between the buttons—all the proof he needed that he’d have to carefully watch what he ate tonight (or how quickly he sat down) lest he make a scene.  
  
He flicked a quick glance toward Francis. “Who do you most look forward to seeing?” Patrick asked by way of distraction as he grabbed the front flap of his fall-front breeches and—with a great breath—sucked in his belly again. He pulled the flap up, making quick work of the two rows of buttons framing either side, effectively hiding the tightly straining buttons beneath cloth. This time, when he let out his breath again, his gut was fully covered…if lovingly highlighted by the high waist of his trousers.  
  
  
Francis moved over to the edge of the neatly made bed, perching his wide backside on the edge to a soft creaking noise that it most certainly didn't make this time last year, watching his lover's struggle with keen interest, enjoying how much his snuggly fitted trousers highlighted the curve of his belly. It was as though Patrick had not yet accepted that the additional padding around his middle might mean having his trousers taken out by the tailor (again). In fact, as Francis idly rubbed the pillowy dome of his own belly where it had settled against round thighs, he mused that his own trousers were nearing the need for adjustment too.   
  
As for the question, Francis had been fascinated by the whole process. Many at the club that had drawn smaller numbers remained looking mostly the same, but as the figures climbed, so the list of changes to their bodies, and attitudes. More than a few secret gluttons had revealed themselves, and a couple amongst that had exceeded their target. But he supposed his lover meant from a less intellectual point of view.   
  
"I feel as though I missed much of Elian the last time we were at 'Court," he admitted. The poet, aside from Patrick, had caught his eye early in his time at Willowby, and he enjoyed the unique energy he had. "He is often preoccupied though, loved as he is amongst us."  
  
  
“I believe he was touring the countryside with his manservant,” Patrick said distractedly, tugging on his fine lawn shirt and deep bronze-brown waistcoat. That involved its fair amount of tugging and fussing, though not nearly as much as the trousers. “Giving readings at house parties and such. He should be here tonight—is this his year for a final verdict?”  
  
Or had Elian’s time already passed? Funny…the others tended to blur together for him a bit, with only a few exceptions. Oh, he liked them all immensely—they were good friends and fellows—but his attention had been distracted by making sure Francis was ready for this night.  
  
  
Francis again scrunched his nose in thought. He hadn't made exact notes on how much their friends had been needing to gain, but given how marvellously curvaceous Elian had seemed when last they had met, he was inclined to believe his assessment was also upcoming.  
  
"If it isn't tonight, he has continued to gain quite steadily," he said carefully, admittedly a tad embarrassed that he didn't know, given both his fondness for the poet, and his desire to be the one able to offer an answer to nearly any questions. "Are you eager to see everyone?"   
  
  
“I am,” Patrick admitted, tugging on his coat and quickly—expertly—fixing his cravat. Usually this was the sort of work for a manservant, but he’d banished his to other work once he’d starting gaining weight in earnest. He didn’t like their focused, professional hands jerking too-tight clothes onto his softened body—touching his rounded gut. Much, much better to do it himself. “Particularly Arthur. It’ll be interesting to see how big he’s managed to get since last we were all together.”  
  
The heart and soul of Willowby, Arthur had been given the most by far to gain…and had seemingly come to love every moment. When last Patrick saw him, Arthur had already been the fattest man he’d ever known. Could it be possible he was even _bigger_ now?  
  
“There,” he added, turning back to Francis with one last self-conscious tug of his coat. “I am ready.”  
  
  
Francis stood with a quiet huff of effort, his weight still occasionally causing him slight trouble (he'd come to eye armchairs with some calculation before sitting in them, for example), and this was _before_ he'd eaten whatever endless spread was awaiting them at Willowby.  
  
"With his appetite, I've no doubt Arthur will have long since exceeded the number he was given," Francis said with raised eyebrows. He'd never known a man to relish gaining weight so eagerly. As with most of them, he had started somewhat conscious of his image, but very rapidly he'd come to obviously enjoy his swelling body. Every time they met it was alarming to see how much more of Arthur there was.   
  
Setting thoughts of their friends aside, Francis stepped up to Patrick and smoothed the other man's clothes over his front with a decidedly adoring smile as he shyly muttered, "You are so handsome. You always look wonderful."   
  
  
Patrick reached up to catch Francis’s chin between his fingers, lifting his face for a long, slow kiss. This was it—the last few moments before they were wrapped back up in the controlled chaos of the end of Prinny’s reign over Willowby Court.  
  
Even if the impact would be felt for years to come.  
  
“You’re heart-stopping,” he said against Francis’s mouth, giving his lower lip a light nip before reluctantly pulling away. The carriage was awaiting them, after all.  
  
Offering his very best smile, Patrick crooked his elbow for Francis to take his arm. Ready or not, there was an evening at Willowby awaiting them…where Francis would be weighed and judged and finally their lives together could truly begin.


	3. Patrick & Francis: Past

**1812 (the night of the wager)**  
**Willowby Court**  
**Patrick and Francis**  
  
  
**Numbers Are Revealed**  
  
One by one, the members of Willowby Court approached the fat prince to draw their number from a hat. One by one, they stepped aside, their fate literally in their hands. Some sighed with barely hidden relief. Some flushed beet red. Some looked ready to flee into the night, their family’s station and future be damned.  
  
But eventually, everyone had drawn, and the meal was called to a close. Young lords fragmented to smaller knots of conversation as Prinny was laboriously helped up to his feet (belly-first, round as a golden apple) and to a suite to sleep off his dinner…and triumph.  
  
Patrick, still shaken over the disaster that had very nearly befallen him, stared down at his small slip of paper. 20, it read. Meaning 20 pounds to be added within the year to his body. The thing was…  
  
_The thing was_, he hadn’t initially drawn a 20, had he? No, he’d been one of the unlucky ones to draw a 200. _200_. The idea was shocking; he couldn’t even imagine himself that huge. He’d seen the number by chance as he was lifting his hand from the hat, and his stomach had instantly dropped.  
  
He couldn’t do it. He _knew_ he couldn’t do it. So he’d put a bit of sleight of hand to good use—taught to him by his uncle and perfected as a sort of parlor trick to amuse and amaze—and switched the numbers without (thank God) anyone the wiser. 20 was…not wonderful, but it was at least within reach. And, even better, something he could reasonably _recover_ from.  
  
200, Christ.  
  
Shaking his head, feeling just shaken in general, Patrick glanced toward the friend to his left. “Did you manage to dodge a bullet too?” he asked in a low undertone. He hoped so. He wouldn’t wish something like what he’d almost received upon anyone else.  
  
  
The scholar to Patrick's side had been frozen for a good few minutes, his dark eyebrows pulled into a deep furrow as he stared at his piece of paper. He'd indulged rather a lot that evening; copious amounts of red wine, rather than excessive food, and he was a touch unsteady on his feet. At first he hadn't been sure he read the number correctly at all.   
  
Francis had never been even remotely plump, nor athletic, his figure when nude all angles, with barely enough to him to avoid sharply jutting bones. It was difficult to imagine any significant weight to him, but now...  
  
He was broken from his contemplations by Patrick's question, and he blinked for a moment as he looked up at him, almost in something of a haze as his wine-fogged mind worked away at a solution.  
  
"I don't believe I will be dodging much of anything in two years' time," he chuckled weakly, holding up the paper for Patrick, which read _200_.  
  
  
_This is my fault_.  
  
It was the first thing he thought, and whether or not it was necessarily true, Patrick _felt_ it in his bones. 200. Was it the same 200 _he_ had nearly drawn?  
  
“Francis,” he said, stunned. He couldn’t _imagine_ the other man as anything other than what he was. _200 pounds_ was a massive amount for any man, but on Francis, the idea was laughable. This whole thing was impossible. “Christ, man.”  
  
  
Francis' eyes had returned to the paper, turning it back towards him and frowning at it once more, as though he thought there may be a different outcome the more he looked at it.  
  
"It isn't the highest number," the young man said with a naive positivity that could have been attributed to his state of inebriation. He was already trying to picture how he might look with even 100 extra pounds to his frame. He wasn't gifted with height, so any change to his body would likely be more drastic. How would he look with a belly like the Prince's, giving way to round hips, with fat thighs, and a backside that shook with each step?  
  
"I-... Well. It will be a challenge," he mused, more to himself, before finally tilting his head to look at Patrick's paper. "Ah, twenty. That's not too bad... Is it?"   
  
  
_A challenge. _It seemed impossible to Patrick. Even 100 pounds would have seemed impossible—far too much, too quickly. At 100 pounds heavier, Francis would certainly already be quite fat. At 200…  
  
Well. Everything would be round and soft. He’d be even bigger than the prince was now, and _he_ sometimes had to be pried out of his chair when its sides gripped his waist too tightly.  
  
Patrick swallowed hard, fighting to keep all that shock off his face. Francis didn’t need anything else to upset him. “No,” he said, because he could hardly complain about 20 pounds to Francis _now_. “It’s not so bad. I’ll admit, I’m not quite sure how to go about doing it, but…”  
  
But he’d have to learn, right? The tricky thing was, he didn’t even have to work to keep his athletic form—it came as naturally as the golden-toned skin and dimples framing his smile. Putting on even as little as 20 pounds (not to mention keeping it until he was weighed and measured at the end of the year) would be a tall order. Still… “What are you going to do?”  
  
  
While the other members were distracted, and his mind was that little bit clouded anyway, Francis felt comfortable in patting Patrick's arm gently. He'd always admired how the other man looked, but then, who could not?  
  
"I could help you," he said, surprised by his own boldness in that moment. Patrick had been the most welcoming person at Willowby when Francis had first joined them, and he'd continued to be warm and wonderful company, it only felt right to try and help him. "We could help each other," he added hastily.  
  
The moment the Prince had explained the range of numbers, Francis had mused how one might go about gaining as much as the upper end of the scale. He had ideas, the beginnings of a method to make it as easy as possible.  
  
"The best way to gain this much-" he flapped the paper in his hand, "Would be slow and steady. About two pounds a week should suffice, and it should be achievable at that pace. Although... I suppose I'd want to take precautions if I fall ill and unexpectedly lose some... Perhaps three or four instead."  
  
  
_Three to four pounds a week._ It was…utterly mind-boggling.  
  
And yet Patrick was instantly relieved that Francis was willing to help him in turn. Together, it might just be attainable.  
  
“I am willing, and grateful,” Patrick said, letting his hand fall warmly over Francis’s for just a moment. They were at a point in their friendship when such touches were not alarming, if still relatively rare. “And of course I will help you in turn.” He tilted his head. “You still live some distance from the club, do you not? Why don’t you come stay with me for an extended period? I am all alone in my townhouse, and the company would be most welcome.”  
  
Not to mention he had more than enough money to spare. He didn’t want to rudely guess at the state of Francis’s pocketbook, but his own fairly recent inheritance of land, money, and title had set him up more than comfortably for life. Paying for enough food to add a total of 220 pounds between them was no small feat, but it would barely dent his yearly income.  
  
  
Patrick's hand over his was a most welcome sensation, and comforting, brief as it was. They were not so free with their touches as some at Willowby, but it was certainly enough for Francis, and more than he shared with anyone else.   
  
"That's very kind of you," he said softly, with a slight incline of his head as he again glanced at his paper. "If it wouldn't be burdensome, then I believe the company in this endeavour would be beneficial for us both, and I... Will find a suitable exchange as repayment. We can make arrangements as soon as you would like."   
  
  
“Your presence—and expertise—is all I desire,” Patrick assured him. “In fact, it will be a comfort. My title requires I stay in that big, drafty house for appearances, but in truth, it can be quite lonely. Having a companion will warm my evenings, and I can think of no one I would rather spend time with.”  
  
That was true enough, though he likely would never have admitted as much if they hadn’t been put in this unusual situation.  
  
  
The admission brought high colour to Francis' cheeks, but an additional brightness to his smile.  
  
"Then I certainly can't refuse," he chuckled quietly. It was difficult to imagine Patrick would ever be lonely at all, given his charisma and alluring manner came in such an appealing package. Francis had always imagined his friend could snap his fingers and have scores of people clamouring to keep him company, himself included, as he was not immune to the man's charm.   
  
  
He felt instant relief when Francis agreed. Patrick didn’t want to do this alone. He didn’t want to _be_ alone, period. That house…it really was far too big and fine for him alone, but it had been a part of his inheritance—that and a whole host of new rules of propriety to learn.  
  
This, being here with friends, was much easier. He relaxed back in his chair, hands folding over his trim stomach, and let himself smile back just as brightly.  
  
Prinny’s bet was insane, but something told him that with Francis by his side, he’d find his way through.


	4. Arthur & Alex: Future

**1814 (two years after the wager)**  
**An exclusive house party**  
**Arthur and Alex**  
  
  
**Preparing for Arthur’s Weigh-In**  
  
Alex and Arthur were hosting the house party that would serve as the final weigh-in for the largest members of Willowby Court. That seemed prudent, considering how difficult travel had become for Arthur this last year…but even without travel to consider, there were a million and one complications just waiting to make themselves known.  
  
Alex pushed auburn hair back from his brow, mentally going over everything they’d need one final time. Hosting these affairs was bloody expensive—the food alone would beggar a less wealthy pair. Then there was the matter of entertainment, sturdy beds and chairs, a room fit for the Prince Regent himself…  
  
Everything had been polished and buffed and cleaned and perfected. The larders were stuffed even fuller than usual, and Alex had taken the liberty of hiring on additional chefs just to keep up with what he was certain would be a significant demand. It was daunting, to say the least, but he found he enjoyed the challenge. It almost reminded him of his time in the Army: plotting, planning, out-maneuvering his foes.  
  
Though speaking of maneuvering, he should probably check in on Arthur now to make sure the other man had all the help he needed making his ponderous way from bed to drawing room couch, where he would receive his adoring friends.  
  
Smiling a little to himself, Alex about-faced and headed toward the first-floor master suite. It had been redone once it became obvious that the tight stairway was no longer a good fit for Arthur (or perhaps more on the nose, that Arthur was no longer able to fit in the tight stairway). Now everything Arthur needed was on one floor, with a bed big enough for four grown men attached to a lavish sitting room-slash-dining room with large wingback chairs, and an oversized inset bath one could step down into with little trouble. Alex had seen to those details as well: ever since being reunited with the boy he’d loved and lost, he’d been endlessly devoted. Whatever Arthur wanted, Arthur got.  
  
Unless what Arthur wanted was to loll about in bed all day, Alex mused with a small smile, pausing in their bedroom doorway. That would be impossible with so many guests on the way. “Love,” he said to announce himself. “Are you ready to make your way to the receiving room?”  
  
  
The sweet tones of his lover's voice were enough to stir Arthur from a light sleep that he had certainly not been intent on falling into.  
  
In the last year or so, as his already impressive weight had just continued to increase, Arthur had needed more assistance with, well, everything but meals, really. Normally Alex was at his side for everything but, angel that he was, he had instead been terribly busy seeing to everything for the evening. The man was precise, no less than perfect in his planning, Arthur had no concerns in that regard. He would even dare to suggest Alex was more well prepared than the previous house to hold the 'Court.  
  
With his love so busy, Arthur had relied on a strong manservant to help him shift his massive bulk from bed to bath. He was capable of doing so alone, but it was a reassurance that was in place as much for Alex's peace of mind as it was his own, and it would be a lie to say Arthur didn't enjoy being helped as he waddled slowly between rooms, belly arching out ahead of him as well as hanging down against his plush thighs, hips barely passing through the doorways. The servant had helped him dress too, pulling and smoothing perfectly tailored cloth over his quivering flesh until he was neat and ready, but then had been needed elsewhere. With the young man waved away, Arthur had decided to sit on the bed, given how damned much he had already been standing, and that had been where he had dozed off.  
  
"Yes, my darling," he said, his soft, adoring tones muffled with sleep as his thick fingers idly massaged the clothed expanse of his stomach where it sat heavily between his thighs, even while held back by finery. "How are the preparations going?"   
  
  
Alex’s expression softened as he paused to take in all of Arthur—and these days, there was a whole lot of him to take in. Sprawled as he was in their large bed, he was a mountain draped in fine wool and linen. From the doorway, Alex could barely see his lover’s face. All he saw were fat thighs pushed wide and the heavy roll of his belly, rising in a soft mound over him. He looked positively pinned in place, bloated and helpless to move on his own, and while Alex knew that wasn’t true, it still warmed him to imagine.  
  
A pudgy hand was just visible, squeezing and massaging a roll of flesh, making the whole mountain tremble fetchingly. It was an undeniably gorgeous sight.  
  
“We are nearly ready,” Alex said, admiring Arthur for a moment more before heading deeper into the bedroom. More and more of Arthur became visible as he skirted about the bed: hugely round arms, a pillowy chest, an adorable ring of fat softening a cherubic face. Arthur was easily the fattest man Alex had ever seen, and _God_ but he wore it well. “And just in time, too. Our first guests should be arriving within the hour. We should get you up and into the drawing room to greet them.”  
  
  
Arthur shifted as Alex moved around, more into his line of sight. He was excited for the two of them to find out exactly how big he was now. Of course, they knew already, the two of them had been delightedly navigating a relationship while Arthur grew ever fatter for over a year now, but there was something delicious about putting a number on it, applying fact to the visual, the estimations. Hell, he even enjoyed seeing their friends' bodies changing, not just his own, which added to his anticipation.   
  
He was, as it happened, excited enough that his smile became playful as he looked up and started to shift, though there was not much effort behind the movement, "If I am _able_ to get up and into the drawing room."   
  
  
Alex gave a soft chuff of laughter. He recognized the game for what it was, of course. Even though Arthur had become quite large, Alex had _seen _him hoist himself out of bed and waddle elegantly enough about the room. If push came to shove, Arthur was still more than capable of movement (so long as he wasn’t required to move fast or far). But…  
  
Well. It was a great deal of fun to pretend otherwise, sometimes. And they did have _some_ time before the others arrived.  
  
“It’s your own fault if you’re too fat to sit up,” Alex tsked, reaching out to rest his palm against the underside of Arthur’s big belly. He gave the plush fat a squeeze, deliberately shaking it so the whole mountainous flesh wobbled wildly. “Just look at you. It’s a shock that waistcoat managed to button at all this morning, after the way you stuffed yourself at the breakfast table.”  
  
  
Even if he'd instigated it, the reaction he received from Alex still had Arthur's already rosy cheeks darkening. Every time he touched him in that particular way, with strong hands squeezing his doughy flesh, no matter what size he was nor how many years passed, it was always as thrilling as the first time it happened. In fact, it only became more thrilling with so much more of him to jiggle.   
  
"I was all but starving," he protested, a little whine to his tone, "And I know that we have to wait on _everyone_ before we begin tonight. You wouldn't have me going hungry, would you?"  
  
  
“Look at you,” he said. Alex shifted until he could press a knee against the edge of the mattress, getting a better angle so he could grab onto Arthur with _both_ hands, framing and lifting his belly best he could. There was a time when it had been simple enough to squeeze the doughy fat together and hoist it up, but Arthur was getting big enough now that even this was a struggle unless he really put his back into it. That in itself was electrifying. “Do you really think you could ever go hungry?”  
  
Alex’s words were sharp, but his voice was fond. Even when they played this game, his love and frank admiration were threaded through each word.  
  
“Tsk. There’s gaping between your buttons—did you know?”  
  
  
Arthur squirmed, without any real intention to move, his colour only deepening at Alex's words even as they delighted him. From his position, with Alex's lithe, strong form above him, and the movement pushing his belly up against his chest, in turn pushing against his heavy second chin, he really did feel too large to move. He brought his pudgy hands up to the buttons of his waistcoat, which admittedly were a little strained, but were not struggling, but by the end of the evening, would likely be, if they managed to hold on at all. Much as he wanted to lounge there longer, he wanted Alex's kiss more, and with a soft grunt of effort that was at least partially truthful, he sat up, his belly rolling forward into enormous rolls, threatening to trap Alex's hands, and he leaned in to kiss the other man at the corner of his soft lips.  
  
"They will more than gape by the end of the evening if I have my way," he said. "I am already eager for dinner."   
  
  
God, what those words did to him. What _Arthur_ did to him.  
  
He slid his hands around the easy spread of Arthur’s belly, loving the way it rolled forward when he moved. It was his favorite thing about Arthur’s body—always had been, from the time they’d been little more than boys back at school. _Then_, he’d secretly watched the way his pudgy friend’s stomach pushed out against his uniform top, dark indentation of his belly button only just visible. _Now_, he loved to roll Arthur onto his side so that belly spilled over the mattress. Or, even better, helped hoist him up onto his hands and knees so it could fall forward to brush against the counterpane as he trembled there.  
  
Even now, it was easy to imagine how it would spill out between inevitably popped buttons: God knew the men of Willowby would be all too happy to help feed their ‘mascot’ until he all but burst.  
  
“It will be a wonder if there’s a scrap of fabric left on you by the end of tonight,” Alex murmured, leaning over Arthur’s softness to press kisses against his rounded jaw. “No doubt we will have to roll you back to bed, your buttons burst all around you.”  
  
  
Alex knew all of the right things to say. He always knew.   
  
Arthur hummed softly at the attention, the very sweetest affection before he received it in abundance from his companions when they arrived. Of course, Alex was his only love, but there was nothing to stop him from enjoying the attention from the other men, especially as his lover seemed to almost encourage it, as though them feeding and doting on Arthur was preparing him for Alex later in the evening.  
  
"No wonder you remain ever so strong, needing to help roll your tremendously fat lover from the dinner table every night," he gushed, his hands finding Alex's firm upper arms with an appreciative squeeze of his own. "Though I believe your strength will be thoroughly tested tonight."  
  
  
He gave a throaty chuckle, nipping at Arthur’s jaw before kissing along the heavy fold of his second chin. Alex knew this could only be a tease right now—they had less than an hour to go—but he still swung his full weight up onto the bed, settling between Arthur’s thick thighs. He nudged the weight of Arthur’s belly up until it was resting across his own knees and thighs, spilling around him. The way his thighs pushed up those heavy rolls into false perkiness, Arthur almost looked like he had a year ago, when he’d been fat but not hugely so, belly still rising proudly before him and not yet hanging to cover his privates. He’d had a lush chest then, but not _breasts_ big enough to fill Alex’s palms if he only dared take their play that far right now.  
  
Thinking of just how much he’d gained in that year sent a shiver down Alex’s spine. Thinking how much he’d gain while Willowby Court hosted their bacchanalia tonight—this week—this _month_ if it spiraled into its usual haze of self-indulgence—had his blood simmering.  
  
If Arthur was fat now, how much fatter would he be by the end of this? _Was_ there an end to this?  
  
“Thoroughly tested,” Alex agreed huskily, “but at least for now I will have other strong arms to help lever you and this gut of yours into bed. Just think how difficult it will be when you’re even rounder and we’re all alone. Who will help me haul you about then? Or will I have to set you on the floor and roll you end over end like a great big bowling ball?” he teased.  
  
  
There was something shocking, and utterly tantalising, about how much of his poor lover's lap was now covered by Arthur's massive belly. Sometimes he forgot simply how huge he had grown; he certainly seemed to when he was propped in a wide, sturdy chair at the dinner table, where he often ate as though he had never seen food before.  
  
"Perhaps you won't be able to move me at all," he offered, his face scarlet from the building heat that their talk was causing him. "I'll need to remain at the table, or in a chair, until I've digested everything that I'll have no doubt been stuffed with."  
  
He raised a hand to stroke Alex's cheek, admiring him. The scar on his lip, his refined jaw, his striking eyes, all framed by gorgeously deep auburn hair... The man had truly come into his looks once he had left school, and likely carved into the magnificent figure before him by the military. Though Arthur had always thought his friend handsome, even at school, before he could truly understand what that meant, Alex had aged like the most wonderful wine, more beautiful with every passing year.  
  
  
Alex turned his face to press an open-mouthed kiss against Arthur’s palm, still watching him from beneath his lashes. His own hands massaged and kneaded at his lover’s belly as if preparing him for tonight—as if there was any way he could be prepared for the orgy of excess tonight would prove to be.  
  
“Perhaps not,” he murmured. “And perhaps we should ensure that.” Alex lightly bit the soft pad of Arthur’s thumb, playful. “Promise me you’ll eat everything put before you. Everything handed to you. Everything every one of those fat little lordlings press to your mouth. Promise me you won’t stop even when you feel stuffed to the brim—that you won’t stop even when your waistcoat,” he flicked a button, “comes flying open and your shirt rips, letting you spill out over the table and the straining arms of that poor chair. Promise me you’ll _keep going_ until you’ve passed every limit, until this gorgeous belly of yours has puffed up and out like fresh dough pinning you in place, and only stop when your body tells you it’s impossible to go on.”  
  
His eyes glittered with heat as he rose up onto his knees, deliberately pressing into the prodigious rolls, leaning in until their faces were an inch apart. “Arthur, love,” Alex said, “I want to see you indulge like you never have before. And by the end of the night, I want to see you so big and round and _full_ that even with a dozen strong men, we couldn’t hope to pry you up onto your feet.”  
  
  
Arthur was all but whimpering with every additional word. Were he to get his own way, they would immediately cancel the evening and Alex would feed him alone, stuffing him full until he could take no more, and teasing him for it, just as he had said.  
  
"Yes," he gasped, delighted, almost unable to find any more words as Alex nipped him and fondled his pillowy stomach, "I want nothing more right now than to be stuffed like a prize hog."  
  
He leaned forward, kissing Alex with more fire than before, though there was still an element of restraint; after all, the time left available to them was dwindling.  
  
"I should get up and ready for our guests," he breathed as he pulled away, his eyes lidded. "For _dinner_."  
  
  
“Everyone will be so happy to see you,” Alex agreed, his own voice rough. It had probably been a bad idea to tease them both like this…but then again, that would just make the evening all the more exciting. He looked forward to watching everything that went down. Alex tended to fade into the background at Willowby events. He wasn’t officially part of the club, even though they had adopted him as one of their own—partly because he had proven himself to be so very good at tending to all conceivable details, making the fattened lords comfortable.  
  
It helped, he supposed wryly, to have a true admirer in the ranks.  
  
“Come, love,” he said, reluctantly pulling away. He stood, smoothing his own ever-neat waistcoat and trousers, before offering Arthur his hands. Even if Arthur could get up on his own, help was never a bad idea at his size. “Let’s get you settled for tonight.”  
  
  
Arthur took another moment to admire his companion as he stood before him, ready to put those wonderfully strong arms to work, and for him.   
  
"Darling," he gushed as he took Alex's hands and swung one thick leg over the edge of the bed to turn, "They will be happy to see the both of us. They know how you arrange for them, how much you do to ensure we are all drunk, full, and satisfied." He chuckled as he braced himself and heaved up, trying not to rely on Alex too heavily, lest he bring them both tumbling into an undignified heap on the bed, with his lover sprawled atop all of Arthur's softness. And what a _shame_ that would be.  
  
With some short strain, Arthur was on his feet, still holding Alex's hands, his body quivering with the effort.   
  
  
“Perhaps,” he agreed with a smile, biceps tightening as he used his (fairly significant) strength to keep Arthur steady. “But you are undoubtably the club’s favorite, and for good reason. What would they ever do without their mascot? Speaking of...”  
  
Alex carefully let go of Arthur’s hands, one after the other, before stepping back to take him in. Clucking softly, he crouched before him, smoothing out wrinkles in his trousers and tugging the cradling waistcoat back down into place. He lifted the forward spill of Arthur’s belly to get the fabric sitting right, then carefully let it settle back again against his thighs, everything perfectly in order.  
  
It was important to Alex that Arthur always look his best—especially to greet the men of Willowby. They were partially here to admire him, after all.  
  
“There,” he said, standing again and offering his arm. “You look perfect.”  
  
  
Arthur froze as Alex near disappeared beyond the swell of his stomach to fuss at his clothes. More than once, he had tried to see around his thickening form and ruined his love's handiwork. Even the slightest tutting from Alex made his stomach flutter, as though he was ever so mildly scolding him for wrinkling his clothes.  
  
"You are a treasure, love," he sighed, linking their arms and pressing against Alex as he flicked a pale gold curl from where it had been tickling his ear, "You take such wonderful care of me."  
  
  
“I love to take care of you,” Alex murmured, reaching up to delicately smooth that curl away from Arthur’s face. “I am so glad our lives managed to cross again, after so long a time.”  
  
He’d been in love with Arthur for years, after all. Over a decade by now. As schoolboys, Arthur had awakened in him a…unique admiration for the growing male form he might have kept locked tight inside of him otherwise. Sometimes he still thought back to the night of their first kiss. They had snuck off into the library together, defying curfew. The night was dark and storming, lightning flashing outside, but inside everything was cozy warmth as Arthur turned to smile at him, lit by a single candle, a book in his hands and his ill-fitting shirt untucking from his just as tightly squeezing trousers. He’d been getting chubby again, and he looked so beautiful, so precious, so _perfect_ all rumpled up and poured into his restricting uniform that Alex hadn’t been able to control himself.  
  
He’d pushed in—pushed Arthur back against the bookshelf—and caught him in a hungry kiss. He may have pulled back immediately after, horrified with himself, if Arthur hadn’t responded at once: dropping the book and grabbing at Alex’s already-broad shoulders, fingers digging into flesh as he kissed _back_.  
  
He’d opened up so easily to him then—effortlessly—lips parting for the stroke of Alex’s tongue, body lifting up in a writhe. _Responsive_ to everything Alex did. And maybe it was that, or maybe it was the too-tight shirt, or maybe it was something else entirely that awakened this strange fascination in Alex, but he’d dragged his hands up from Arthur’s hips at that moment and slid them under his shirt, pushing it up further—exposing his soft, milk-and-honey belly to the cool night air. He’d given the soft little pot a squeeze, moaning into the wildness of the kiss, utterly transported…  
  
And that, of course, had been when they were caught and Alex was sent away from school in disgrace, never to see Arthur again. Until a chance meeting and a renewed friendship led to this, here: his beautifully, perfectly obese lover leaning on his arm as they waddled him out toward the main drawing room.  
  
“Can we manage the door side-by-side?” he asked when they reached the threshold of the bedroom. It was wider than most, but still…  
  
  
Leaning in to the touch, Arthur lifted his free hand to lace his pudgy fingers with Alex's long, elegant ones, turning to kiss his palm.  
  
"I love you. I had no idea that we would come together again, I am forever thankful," he said, his voice betraying his emotions for that moment, before his attention was turned to the arched doorway.   
  
Arthur glanced from the arch, to Alex, smiling a little cheekily, "I'm not sure, but wouldn't it be delightful to try? You can squeeze up against me, and if we get stuck, well we will simply have to greet everyone from there."   
  
  
Alex laughed, delighted. Arthur was always surprising him. “All right,” he said as they stepped up to the doorway, “but if we shock the staff, I am blaming you.”  
  
Not that the staff could be shocked by much of anything. They had been carefully chosen from the butler to the cooks to the scullery maids to all be understanding of this strange dynamic. If anything, _they_ had become just as enamored of Arthur as Alex was; he’d caught the footmen sneaking Arthur extra treats on more than one occasion.  
  
They stepped forward and Alex deliberately pressed tight against Arthur’s side, squeezing in close. It was always a pleasure to be cuddled up against his warm bulk, and the sudden _press_ of the doorway against his side was enough to startle another laugh out of him. It really was going to be a tight fit like this. “Can you make it?”  
  
  
"I will accept that responsibility," Arthur promised as the approached the doorway.   
  
He knew before they had even attempted it, that it was not going to be possible without at least some struggle. Nevertheless, he waddled carefully close to Alex, already able to see that the wide rolls at his side would be pressed against the frame. As he stepped into the doorway, he was gradually becoming more wedged in the arch, though they wouldn't be _stuck_, as he had jested. Poor Alex would be all but trapped next to him.   
  
"I might have been a touch out in my estimation," he chuckled, glancing about them.   
  
  
Alex managed to wriggle around until he was more facing toward Arthur (though that was no mean feat), one hand falling to his sizable rump and the other lightly gripping his front. His smile was wide and wicked as he deliberately nudged forward, squeezing Arthur tighter against the doorframe as if he truly had gotten so fat he’d been stuck there.  
  
“Oh no, how will we ever get you out again?” he teased, giving his lover a generous squeeze. “Can you heave yourself forward until you pop free?”  
  
  
Arthur couldn't stifle the delighted giggle that escaped him, even as he started reddening again. He squirmed, incredibly deliberately wriggling against Alex while looking up at him through his eyelashes.   
  
"I'm trying, but-" he twisted a little, very much enjoying the feeling of Alex's slim body against his, "I might be stuck, love."  
  
  
Alex’s eyes darkened. If they weren’t expecting guests…  
  
Well. If they weren’t expecting guests, Arthur would be naked by now. There was nothing Alex loved more than these playful games: Arthur dressing in too-tight clothing only to have it rip and shred around him. Arthur lowering himself into tight chairs and eating a full meal, then struggling to free himself after.  
  
Anything that touched on Arthur’s increasing bulk and the difficulties of life surrounding it heated Alex’s blood like nothing else, and even though it was just a game, he felt _electrified_ at the idea of Arthur actually being stuck in a doorway, unable to wriggle himself free.  
  
“That’s what you get, I suppose,” he murmured, giving Arthur a hard (but never too hard) squeeze, “for letting yourself blow up like this. Just think of what people would say if they saw you now.”  
  
  
Arthur whined, a tiny noise in the back of his throat at the combination of the firm squeeze, and Alex's stern words. To imagine he was truly stuck, swollen too heavy and round and _fatter _than he thought possible was delicious. He heaved harder, braced by his lover, and the doorframe.   
  
"Would they gawp at me, being too fat to move from my predicament?" he offered, before lowering his voice, pouting and squirming more, "Anyway, you're partially responsible, feeding me so often."   
  
  
“They would absolutely stare,” he murmured, bracing his back against the doorjamb and using his body to keep Arthur well and truly trapped. _Squirming_ as he fought to pop free. God, it was hot watching him try. “They would stare and wonder how this had happened to you. How you’d ballooned the way you had. Hundreds of pounds. Do you realize that, love?” Alex asked, giving Arthur’s stomach a well-timed smack. It made him quiver and shake, exacerbated by the way he was squirming. “You’ve put on _hundreds_ of pounds. If you keep going like this, you’ll need to be carried in some great litter by a score of handsome men whenever you want to leave the bed.”  
  
Alex leaned in close, nipping at Arthur’s soft neck, giving his heaving belly another solid smack just to watch it ripple. “Keep going like this,” he whispered, “keep letting me feed you like the little glutton you are, and you’ll be the fattest man alive. You’ll—”  
  
He stopped, stilling, at the distant sound of hooves. A part of him—the part that had been such a good officer in the military—had been keeping one ear open just in case.  
  
“Ah,” Alex said, disappointed. He gave a sigh and carefully slid himself free, despite wishing he could stay pinning Arthur there for hours. “It sounds like our first guests may be early.”  
  
  
Each smack earned Alex a sharp gasp from Arthur. He was too absorbed in the fantasy, too eager to hear more from his lover, to even notice the sound, and was dazed when Alex took a smooth step back.   
  
Crimson once more, and a little out of breath, Arthur cleared his throat, casting a glance towards the window, "Hmph. I wonder if they know how terribly rude it is to be early, of all things."   
  
Still, he shuffled his way into their expansive hall, ready to greet their unfashionably early guests despite the lingering haze of lust fogging his thoughts. It would soon go away when faced with his friends of the Willowby Court.   
  
  
Alex kept pace by Arthur’s side, discretely adjusting himself even as he tried to think calming thoughts. Once the first guest arrived, the festivities would begin, and he planned on being a proper host—and making sure Arthur received the full attention he deserved.  
  
The whole affair would be a whirlwind. The house would be full to the brim with once-trim men now gone to seed, bloated into exaggerated versions of themselves. Even now, as they passed the big windows, he could see one of the fat lordlings trying to squeeze himself out of the carriage, widened rump briefly caught by the narrow frame in unconscious mockery of the game he and Arthur had been indulging in.  
  
Still, there was no one who could compare to Arthur. His big, strong chair was waiting for him in the grand entry hall, a series of small, round tables already set up with treats. Each guest wouldn’t want to miss the chance of a good luck rub of their mascot’s impressive gut, after all…or a chance to feed him a bit of something sweet in welcome.  
  
Alex, you see, always thought of everything: especially if that everything meant a lover who only grew fatter and more perfect by the day.  
  
_Now to see what this party will make of them all_, Alex thought as he helped Arthur heave himself down into the chair to welcome the first of his guests, big belly pushing fat thighs apart in a deliciously sweet overhang. _And see what fun will come from tonight’s bacchanal._


	5. Arthur & Alex: Past

**Early 1800s (years before the wager is struck)**   
**A prestigious boarding school  
** **Arthur & Alex**

  
**A Shared Kink is Discovered**  
  
It was late—long past curfew—and dreadfully stuffy.  
  
A storm raged just outside the beautiful old school, lightning flashing fitfully across beds with their sleeping boys. Rain pattered hard against closed windows, and the rustling breeze promised fresh air that couldn’t be found within what was starting to feel like a prison.  
  
_If I don’t get out of here_, Alex thought mutinously, staring up at his ceiling and doing his best to ignore the soft snores of his roommate, _I will go mad._  
  
Thunder rumbled, and he glanced toward the window he was under strict orders not to open. At the next flash of lightning, he was up and on his feet, too restless to keep still any longer. He did pause long enough to bunch up his bedclothes so a quick glance made it appear he was still sleeping inside, but he barely paused long enough after that to throw on some slippers before he was sneaking out of his room and into the dark hallway.  
  
A careful glance revealed no patrolling teachers. Relieved, Alex padded several doors down the hall and slipped into another familiar room. Arthur didn’t have a roommate—the benefit of being higher up on the food chain than a third son like Alex—and of course _he_ didn’t snore. In fact, he looked like something out of a fairy tale lying there asleep in bed: golden curls scattered across his pillows, cherubic face flushed, lips parted, the barest, barest hint of a maybe-someday second chin peeking out.  
  
He'd kicked his blankets down at some point, revealing the pajamas that were a near match to Alex’s own. But where Alex’s hung a little off him, too big, Arthur’s were once again just a bit too _small_. The fabric clung to the subtle rise and fall of his chest, his little mound of a belly all too obvious from this angle. The tail ends of the shirt were untucking from the bottoms, revealing small flashes of soft skin that shouldn’t have made Alex’s pulse flutter like it was.  
  
He pressed both hands to his own flat belly, feeling weird and excited standing there—that same uncanny rush he sometimes got whenever Arthur took seconds or thirds at dinner, or when he unselfconsciously pulled off his jumpers, shirts molding to the winter chub his parents would force him to work off over the summers. It was that feeling Alex couldn’t understand or categorize. The one he was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to be having for his all too male best friend.  
  
_Stop being so weird_, Alex told himself firmly, stepping into the room and going to Arthur’s bed. He gave his friend’s shoulder a little shake, leaning over to whisper, “Arthur. Hey, Arthur, wake up.”  
  
  
The evening's meal had been heavy, at least for Arthur, and he had staggered to bed with a painfully full belly taxing the fastenings of his uniform, and then his nightclothes. He hadn't meant to eat so much, but as always, without his family looking over him and cautioning him about another helping of potatoes, or a sneaky second dessert, he rarely exercised restraint.  
  
He'd fallen asleep immediately, and deeply, up until the moment he was gently jostled awake. He opened his eyes with a soft whimper, "Ohh... Hello, Alex. Is everything alright?“  
  
  
Alex smiled, expression instantly softening at that little, breathy noise. “I’m feeling restless,” he said, voice pitched low. “I was thinking of sneaking down to the library and stretching my legs and wanted to know if you felt like coming along.”  
  
It was a tradition of sorts, though not one they indulged in often. The library was cavernous and full of all sorts of special edition books they weren’t supposed to touch (which of course only made them all the more alluring). Plus the thrill of getting away with something they weren’t supposed to was undeniable. And…  
  
“We could see if there’s something to snag from the kitchen along the way.”  
  
  
Much as he tried not to let himself, Arthur was inclined towards laziness, and while the library did sound appealing, especially when it meant going against the rules with his closest friend, his bed was warm, and impossibly soft. But then Alex mentioned the kitchen, and Arthur's blue eyes lit up.   
  
For whatever reason, Alex was his lucky charm when it came to finding treats when they weren't supposed to. The rare times Arthur had gone scrounging alone, he'd only found a box of biscuits that were going a little soggy from the warmth of the kitchen. _Alex_ always found cakes and pastries, or scones with jam and cream that would not be missed.  
  
Arthur sat up, rubbing his eyes as he grinned, "Mm, yes! Let's go."   
  
  
Alex grinned back, sharp-featured face partially lost to shadow. He reached out to take one of Arthur’s hands, tugging his best friend out of bed before the other boy could change his mind. God alone knew he’d spend all his time lazing about if he could; sometimes Alex felt like a particularly energetic planet madly circling a benevolent sun.  
  
“C’mon, then,” he said, pulling him toward the door, not letting go. He paused just long enough for Arthur to shove his feet into some slippers, but then he was leading him out the door and into the dark hallway, their fingers curled together in silent intimacy.  
  
It wasn’t usual for boys to go about holding hands, Alex knew, even if they _were_ the best of friends and had been for as long as they’d been in school. So he didn’t do it often, but when he had the excuse…  
  
Well, Arthur was still waking up, after all. And Alex’s vision was better in the dark. It only made sense for him to lead the way with their hands firmly clasped, hearts beating strong enough that each pulse could be felt.  
  
The school was big and rambling, with an odd mishmash of dead-end halls and stairs to seemingly nowhere. Alex had scouted them out long ago and knew _all_ the best secrets. He had the route mapped in his mind and led Arthur silently through the looming dark with ease, avoiding the creaking floorboards and spills of light from teachers who stayed up well into the night.  
  
It was an adventure. It was like being in one of the books he so loved—those serials set in far-off places where danger lurked around every corner. And he took this danger _very_ seriously, intent on keeping Arthur from getting in any kind of trouble. Alex, himself, had more than his fair share of demerits—he tended to take the fall, knowing his parents didn’t care what he got up to, while Arthur’s were strict about just about everything: his grades, his reports, his figure.  
  
Maybe especially that.  
  
  
Even though it was not the first time they had snuck out to prowl the school's halls, it was certainly thrilling as the first time, and Arthur could feel giggles bubbling up in him, threatening to erupt. He'd gotten poor Alex in trouble a few times with his laughter, when they wouldn't have been caught in whatever mischief if he'd managed to remain quiet.  
  
He squeezed the other boy's hand as he finally started to join the waking world properly, trying to be vigilant as he was led.   
  
"I hope there's shortbread," he whispered, more to himself. Even if they didn't get a snack, he was quite looking forward to skulking about the library with Alex, at least now that he was more conscious. Alex had always felt like the other half of him; sensible where he was not, brave where he faltered. His parents had, during a more cheerful discussion, described them as one another's shadow; always together whenever they could be.  
  
"Did you finish your book?" he added. He never was good at being stealthy.  
  
  
“Shh,” Alex said on a quiet laugh of his own. Arthur would make a terrible spy—or treasure hunter—or battlefield commander—or any of the things Alex liked to read about. When they were younger, they would play pretend, but that usually ended up with Arthur setting up base camp while Alex ran around here or there collecting supplies or mapping enemy terrain.  
  
Even now that they were almost grown (or at least close enough to consider themselves almost grown), he was adorably terrible at sneaking around. But Alex would rather cut off his own arm than leave Arthur behind.  
  
They managed to keep quiet all the way down to the kitchens, where a light still shone from the housekeeper’s office. That didn’t mean anyone was in there, but it was best to act like she was. Alex left Arthur in the kitchen doorway with a finger to his lips, then let go of his hand, disappearing into shadow.  
  
What Arthur had attributed to good luck was really just a more deft hand at sneaking deeper into the kitchen than anyone else dared. There were lots of places an unwary boy could get caught out here—the housekeeper’s office door, always left at least cracked. The scullery maid’s baskets like traps left for the unwary. The threat of any of the maids coming in at any time at the slightest noise, their rooms off the main kitchen through an open doorway.  
  
But all the best stuff was hidden toward the back, and Arthur deserved the best, so Alex slunk through shadows and moved like a whisper, pilfering from this jar and that until he had a small collection. He wrapped his treasures in clean cheesecloth and slunk back to Arthur’s side, catching his hand and leading him away from the kitchen and down the halls again, not letting either of them say a word until they’d reached the safety of the far library where they would only be caught if they had the bad luck of being too loud at the exact moment one of the teachers happened to be patrolling by.  
  
“There,” Alex said with a hushed laugh, turning to Arthur again. He reluctantly let go of his hand now that there were no more excuses left. “_Now_ we can talk. Yes, I finished my book, and yes, it was wonderful. I want to find another. Here,” he added, passing over the wrapped bundle. “There were some good things in there—including shortbread.”  
  
He’d broken off perhaps more of that than he should have, but there was no reason Cook would be able to figure out who had stolen it anyway.  
  
  
His fretful wait at the kitchen doorway had felt painfully long as Arthur tried to listen out for any movement from the maids. While he wouldn't have made it in there himself, the least he could do was act as a lookout.   
  
When Alex returned, cheesecloth in hand, Arthur nearly gave them away with what would have been a delighted little cheer, but Alex quickly shook his head and dragged him to the library, deep into it, where they liked to hide the most.   
  
"You are amazing," Arthur beamed, taking the wrapped treats and, predictably, taking the shortbread first, before offering it to Alex, though he was sure he would know what would happen. Alex didn't have the same fierce sweet tooth Arthur did, nor the seemingly endless appetite, which was probably why he was so wonderfully slender.   
  
That brief thought finally brought the taught buttons of his shirt to Arthur's attention, and he tugged at it a little as he chewed the shortbread, "Though... Perhaps I should save some of this, rather than eat it all now, as I would like. I am getting fat again, aren't I?"   
  
Despite the concern in his voice, Arthur nibbled on another piece from the selection, finding fruit cake and humming happily. He was awful at refusing food, and worse at refusing food from Alex.   
  
  
_I am getting fat again, aren’t I?_  
  
The question caused unexpected heat to bloom low in his own belly, and Alex had to look away for a moment, pretending to study the shelves as if searching for a book. In truth…yes, yes Arthur was getting fat again. It was only just after midyear and he was already almost at his biggest again, which was a rather confusing and exciting prospect. Mostly because he was known to gain the most as winter turned to spring, when the weather trapped them all inside and laziness took over. Usually that meant ending the season as he was now, just beginning it. It was…heady, imagining what he might look like a few months from now if this was his starting point.  
  
Though _why_ it was heady, and why Alex just wanted him to keep eating the sweets he’d found him, and why he even noticed these things at all, Alex couldn’t possibly say.  
  
“You’re fine,” he said, perhaps a bit more curt than he’d intended. Drawing in a breath, Alex turned back to his friend, smiling and struggling not to notice the gradually gaping buttons, or at the way his top was untucking to reveal a sliver of flesh. “I mean it. You look good, you’re healthy, and you’re happy. What else matters?” Then, quieter, unable to help himself: “Go ahead and eat the rest. I want you to.”  
  
  
Alex's words raised a bright smile, and more than a slight blush. There was something deeply lovely about knowing that his friend thought he looked _good, _and he wanted him to enjoy all of the things he was not allowed at home. Not only that, but a great deal of the things he was not allowed, but so desperately wanted.   
  
He gathered up the cheesecloth and moved to one of the armchairs, ignoring the straining of his buttons as he sat and started nibbling, watching Alex with an affectionate smile that rounded out his plump cheeks.   
  
"Thank you," he said, covering his mouth, "My mother was especially insistent while I was home last that she would not have my uniform tailored again." Though she did; it was worse to have her fat son straining at the seams and making them look cheap. "She wouldn't even allow me a second piece of bread with my soup," he whined.  
  
  
“If you lived with me,” Alex said, going back to browsing the shelves idly, though he kept one subtle eye on Arthur, “you could have as much bread with your soup as you liked. When we’re off living on our own, after school, I will make sure you always have shortbread, too. However much you want.”  
  
Outside, thunder rumbled again, lightning flashing. Alex paused long enough to drift to one of the tables and light a candle; a single light shouldn’t be enough to call attention to themselves, and besides…he wanted to see Arthur better.   
  
  
Arthur sighed, dreamily considering that possibility.   
  
"I would be... _enormous_," he mumbled, a slight chuckle in his voice. His parents seemed to think being fat should be the very last thing anyone ought to be, and those who were, were distasteful in their excess. Arthur knew he should be ashamed of his softening tummy, but didn't really see why. Still, he did as he was bid every winter when his parents sneered at how plump he'd gotten in a short term and insist he exercise while they controlled his meals. "Practically eat us out of house and home."   
  
  
His blood was _humming_ at the thought.  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alex said, eyes locked on the bookshelves. His hands were shaking. “You won’t be enormous. You’ll just be you, with maybe a bit more to you. That’s all.”  
  
But of course he couldn’t get the image out of his head: Arthur getting bigger, and rounder, and fatter. Arthur getting enormous. Eating and eating and _eating_ until he was pinned back under his own weight, moaning.  
  
Fuck. What was he even thinking? That was so _weird_.  
  
“Finish up your sweets,” Alex added, voice strained. “I need help finding a book.”  
  
  
Arthur hurried, eager to help Alex as he always was. After all, they didn't brave the trek to come to the library to just chat about the sad state of Arthur's waistline.  
  
Still chewing, he appeared at Alex's side, looking up at the shelves. He'd rushed his food, too caught up in how delicious it was, all the sweeter for being eaten so late, and for the company as he did so, and now his belly was a little tender, his shirt having most definitely parted ways with his snug trousers.   
  
He let a hand rest against his tummy, almost trying to rub the ache away without being noticed, and brought his other hand to Alex's, poking him, "What are we looking for?"   
  
  
Alex forced himself to break his rapt gaze, flushing darker. What was wrong with him? He felt strange and a little out of control. There was fire licking through his blood.  
  
“Ah, it’s an adventure serial, bound together,” he said, refusing to let himself look at that small crescent of skin visible when Arthur accidentally rucked his top up a little with his rubbing. “Red spine, gold lettering. I forget the name. Something with Jungle in it.”  
  
  
Almost as Alex was speaking, Arthur yelped in triumph, spotting the exact book and standing on the balls of his feet to reach up for it, bunching his snug shirt up before quickly tugging it down as he brought the book with him.  
  
"I found it! Like magic," he laughed, turning to offer it to Alex, beaming at him. "You really didn't see it?"   
  
  
Alex had no idea what came over him then.  
  
Maybe it was the cozy warmth of the single candle flickering shadows and golden light across Arthur’s beautiful face. Maybe it was the frenetic rumble of thunder outside, or the huge smile, or those flashes of soft belly that _for some reason_ he couldn’t yet articulate always scrambled up his brain. Maybe it was the sweetness or the way Arthur was looking at him or the straining buttons on the beautiful pooch of his belly—or all of it all together.  
  
_Whatever_ it was, something inside him snapped.  
  
Alex stepped forward—stepped into Arthur’s space—and pushed him _back_ against the bookshelf. Before Arthur could so much as cry out in surprise, Alex was kissing him: hungry, hot, a little unhinged. Desperate, from all the way down to his toes. He’d been wanting to do this for _so long_ it was like a drumbeat in his mind, pushing him harder against Arthur’s body in a consuming kiss. God, but he was starving for it.  
  
_What are you doing?!_  
  
The shocked thought caught up to him a second too late, and Alex froze, ready to pull back in horror and abject apology.  
  
  
There was only a brief second of surprise before Arthur immediately dropped the book, whimpering desperately into the kiss. It was overwhelming, so messy and hungry, their breath mingling in his very first kiss. It was made all the most wonderful coming from Alex, his very best friend, the one he wanted to do everything with. It was only fitting that they did this too.   
  
The moment Arthur could, he half gasped for air, half moaned, his hands coming up to grab Alex's shoulders lest he dare consider moving away as he tilted his hips up, arching his back until he was aware of his soft pot belly nudging Alex's own trim waist.   
  
  
_Oh thank God_.  
  
Alex was deeply aware of how close he’d come to messing up the most important thing in his life. If Arthur had hated him for that impulsive kiss… But Arthur was responding with the same keen hunger, and it was setting him on fire.  
  
He moaned and licked deeper into Arthur’s mouth, inexpertly tangling their tongues together. This wasn’t his first kiss, but it was close to it—and it was certainly the first he _felt_ on this visceral level. Before, with girls willing to cast a handsome young man like him a second look, he’d felt awkward and a little cold. Now, he was nothing but blistering heat as he pushed back against Arthur’s welcoming body, needing…  
  
Needing something more.  
  
Alex slid his hands up to Arthur’s waist, then _higher_, reaching for what he’d always wanted. He still couldn’t explain why, but that ever-softening belly had become a catalyst to his erotic imagination, and he _needed his hands on it_. A button popped free as his hand jerked, pulling the top the rest of the way out of Arthur’s waistband before sliding his palms up—rutching the fabric until it exposed his belly to the cool night air, his hands obsessively mapping and squeezing soft flesh even as the kiss grew ever-hotter.  
  
  
Arthur tensed, imagining that his first instinct should have been to shrink away and hide his supposedly shameful little gut, but Alex's hands on it ignited him completely, and the tension left him quickly. He could feel the fascination from his friend, and no mocking, no disgust. Alex's hands were curious, and not in the same way he knew other boys to be; his attention was focused heavily on his pudgy middle, and Arthur realised he didn't want to do anything that might make that keen touch stop.  
  
He moved his hands to Alex's hair, stroking and grasping gently as he tried to deepen the kiss, to encourage the other boy, to offer up more of his belly, if that were possible.   
  
  
Alex sucked hungrily on Arthur’s tongue, fingers digging into—massaging—soft flesh. It felt heavenly between his palms, that little gut _everything _to him right now. He was breathless and turned on and confused and elated, learning the shape of Arthur’s body in a whole new way.  
  
He slid his hands up to briefly tease over the slightly softened pecs before dropping down again to grip burgeoning love handles. He had the maddest desire to shake that little belly, or give it a gentle smack; he had no idea where that impulse came from, so instead he massaged thick flesh and kept kissing Arthur like his life depended on it.  
  
  
Arthur pulled away, gasping and panting, searching Alex's face for an explanation for only a second before he decided he didn't actually care for one. His friend's touch, his kiss was all he wanted then, and he took Alex's wrists, bringing his hands back to his belly as he leaned up, whimpering against Alex's mouth as he caught him in another kiss, slower and firmer, unsure what more to _do_.   
  
  
Alex thought his heart might burst with joy. Even if he didn’t understand this desire, it seemed Arthur was at least _okay_ with it. And if he was okay with Alex touching him like this, maybe he’d be okay with him…kissing Arthur’s belly, or sucking marks into it, or feeding him until it swole up a little bigger and—  
  
His frantic thoughts (and searching kisses) were interrupted by a cold hand clamping down on Alex’s shoulder. He was ripped back with extreme force, yanked away from Arthur and propelled several staggering steps away.  
  
One of the teachers stood there between them, a horrified and openly disgusted look on his face as he glowered between the two flustered boys.  
  
“Pull yourself together,” the teacher snapped at Arthur, eyeing his bared flesh with disdain. “And go to your room immediately.” Then he turned his glare on Alex. “And _you_. Troublemaker. You are coming with me.”  
  
  
Arthur gasped, panicked by the sudden and violent separation, and thrust a hand out to grab for Alex.   
  
"But, but, but... Alex! He didn't do anything wrong, please, I-" he wailed, tears welling in his eyes, his hands wringing his snug shirt as he reddened, unable to bring himself to run back to his room immediately.   
  
  
Alex moved instinctively toward Arthur—seeing him cry ripped him apart; he couldn’t stand to think of him hurting—but his arm was caught and he was yanked back again, this time with that cruel hand remaining tight around his bicep.  
  
“That’ll be enough of that,” the teacher snapped at Arthur before giving Alex’s (tensing) arm a shake. “And if you say a single word, it will be the worse for _both_ of you. To your room, now,” he added to Arthur, pulling Alex away. “And you; you’ve been trouble from day one. I should have known you’d…”  
  
The tirade continued as he dragged Alex out of the library and to the headmaster. Their situations were so different: Arthur was closer to inheritance than Alex, the third son of a nobody family. And Alex had spent _so many_ years getting written up for this or that. It was only inevitable he take the fall for this as well.  
  
In fact, he was glad to take the fall for Arthur, and he wasn’t sorry that kiss had happened.  
  
As he was being tugged roughly out the door, Alex glanced over his shoulder, meeting Arthur’s tear-filled eyes. The look he cast him was one of love and reassurance and warmth. He smiled bravely for Arthur one final time, trying to send him a measure of comfort as he mouthed, _It’s okay. I’ll see you soon._  
  
It was the first lie Alex ever told him: the next morning, his bags were packed and Alex was gone. They wouldn’t see each other again for many, many years.


	6. Elian & Daniel: Past

**1812 (the night of the wager)**  
**Willowby Court**  
**Elian and Daniel**  
  
  
**A Poet in Distress**  
  
Elian managed to keep his expression controlled all through that horrible dinner and even beyond, when they’d been compelled to stand before the Prince Regent one by one and draw numbers that would seal their fates.  
  
He was especially nervous as he stood at his own turn and strode over, the silk chemise he wore (long red hair tumbling over his shoulders in what he’d carefully arranged into fetching loose curls) skimming his already just shy of too curvy hips.  
  
That had always been his curse and secret blessing, hadn’t it? The body that naturally wanted to add layers of padding at the hips and chest, suggesting an hourglass figure if he tied brightly colored ribbons _just so_. When he had to be out and about in the tailored suits expected of his sex, that little bit of extra softness gave him no end of annoyance, but when he was at Willowby (where no one batted a lash at his more androgynous looks, their bold hands wandering playfully as if he were their very own courtesan) the suggested curves only added to his famed beauty.  
  
But that was with a _strict_ eye to his diet and morning exercises. God only knew what his traitor body would do if allowed to expand at its natural inclination.  
  
He shuddered delicately, picturing his own (incredibly, unfashionably fat) mother and father, and prayed to draw a small number. Something embarrassing but conquerable: 5 pounds. Maybe 10. God, 15 at the most if he wanted to spend the next season sweating through absolutely tortuous runs about the estate, excess flesh jiggling. He knew from (horrible) youthful experience that 15 pounds was all he could reasonably be expected to gain and not look absolutely plump—overflowing his fine clothes and threatening to tear delicate seams.  
  
Elian’s pale, soft, delicate hand trembled slightly as he reached into that damned hat and withdrew a number; all eyes were on him, and for the first time, he hated being the center of attention. Slowly, he unfolded the paper and read his fate.  
  
His stomach instantly sank.  
  
Now, hours later and deep into the night, he’d managed to finally beg his leave from Willowby Court to take his private carriage back home. He’d swaddled himself up in the usual dark greatcoat, hiding the nearly sheer fabric that teased about his form. Once he’d stormed into the front door, he let the greatcoat drop—letting out a choked cry of distress the moment the body he’d worked _so hard _for was exposed again, one hand clapping over his mouth.  
  
There were still a few servants about, but he didn’t wait for his butler to emerge from the shadows. Instead, Elian fled upstairs to his bedroom, just loud enough that his manservant Daniel had to have heard him pass…but for once, he didn’t care. He threw himself down onto the velvet chaise at the foot of his big four-poster bed and buried his face into satin pillows, finally letting the tears flow.  
  
He was going to be _hideous_. In two years’ time, he was going to be the laughingstock of all of London. A round, plush butterball trying desperately to be taken seriously, just like the rest of his gouache, fat, horrible family.  
  
  
The sounds of the carriage arriving had been one thing, but when Daniel didn't hear either a clatter of one thing or another to announce his master's inebriated arrival, nor a bright greeting to those still awake, he was immediately concerned. He liked to wait up for the young lord's return, if only to see him to bed, or help him off with his chosen attire.   
  
The gentlemen that gathered at Willowby all fawned over his master, and so he often returned in high spirits, sometimes with stories of the evening, or gossip if they were lucky enough to be trusted to never repeat it. It was beyond unusual that Elian wouldn't at least greet them, and Daniel was a second behind him, knocking quietly on his bedroom door. He didn't speak, thinking that if Elian wished to be alone, he could pretend not to hear him.  
  
Elian surely wouldn't be out of favour, or anything so outrageous, he was charismatic and thoroughly adored amongst the attendees, but whatever had occurred that night had his master... Hiding?   
  
  
Elian turned his face at the sound of Daniel’s soft knock, eyes brimming with tears. Tumbling red waves fell about his face and shoulders, and there was a small (endlessly vain, like a cat threading between legs and purring for attention) part of him that could picture the pretty image he made. Porcelain-pale against the deep velvet chaise, blue eyes even brighter for the pink gathering at his cheeks, lips parted on a stuttering breath as tears dripped down his chin.  
  
But that was just a small, theatrical part of him. The rest was a riot of emotion as he pushed himself up onto one arm, chemise drooping down one bared shoulder.  
  
“Oh God, Daniel, the world is ending.”  
  
He never claimed not to be a touch overdramatic.  
  
  
Ever calm in the face of his master's theatrics, Daniel stepped in, and closed the door behind him, moving to the chaise and kneeling by it. He felt he had perfected the art of matching Elian in his horror or sorrow, without taking the moment from him and while maintaining the rational thought that tended to escape his master when he got like that. While he had a flare for dramatics, Elian did seem truly upset, and what Daniel wanted was to stroke his lovely hair and hold him, to soothe him with a long embrace. What he would actually do was nothing of the sort.  
  
"Evidently, m'lord," he said softly, his dark gaze full of concern, "Let me get you some tea, and you can tell me about it, if you wish?"  
  
  
“I don’t want _tea_,” he stormed, even though he actually did want tea rather a lot. Nothing soothed him more than an overly-sweetened cup, which Daniel knew well. (Except perhaps a biscuit or two with it, even as he tried to demur that he shouldn’t indulge; he needed to watch his figure. He was always, _always_ watching his figure.) “I don’t want anything except to forget this night ever happened. God, Daniel.”  
  
Elian sat up, looking wild and windswept. “The most horrible thing happened, and I don’t know how I’ll ever recover.”  
  
  
Daniel shushed him in a soft, mannered way, daring to take Elian's delicate hand and tenderly escort him to bed. He supposed not many would be so bold as to touch their masters, let alone actively manoeuvre them into bed, of all places.   
  
"I will fetch some tea, just in case your mind changes as you explain to me, sir," he said, quiet but firm. He encouraged Elian to lie down, but he would do as he pleased, as always. Daniel would not be at all surprised to find him flopped dramatically on chaise when he returned. With a warm smile, he gave a bow and backed out of the bedroom.  
  
Daniel was not gone long, never wanting to leave Elian in such a state if he could help it, returning with a small tray of sweet tea in fine china, and a small lemon biscuit on the side. It was rare to come away from Willowby hungry, he'd noted, but he would have hated for Elian to want something and it not be readily available for him.  
  
"I'll set it over here, sir," he said, balancing the gleaming tray in one hand as he closed the door again and put the tray at the side of the bed. He didn't presume to ask more about the evening's events, instead waiting with his hands neatly folded.  
  
  
Elian stayed where Daniel had put him, a little calmer now that someone so very _even-keeled_ had things under control. If Elian was overly passionate (given to an artistic temperament) then Daniel was his rock. Nothing could be so very terrible if his steadfastly loyal manservant was there.  
  
Except it _was_ absolutely terrible and nothing Daniel could do would save him from what had happened tonight.  
  
“I may as well drink this, sweet as it is,” he said, wiping away the tears. He reached for the tea, pausing over the biscuit before giving a mirthless laugh. “And the biscuit as well, even though I’ve been getting round again.” He never once tipped over into actually _pudgy_—he wasn’t even at his highest weight right now, though he was tipping close enough toward it to make extra sweets usually out of the question—but there was a tempting bit of swell to his hips and thighs and belly that fed into his androgynous illusion, and he was often fretting over an extra pound or two. “In fact, I may as well have _all_ the biscuits and be damned. Daniel,” he said, meeting the other man’s eyes. “Do you think it’s possible I could be beautiful even when I’ve become horribly fat?”  
  
  
The question helped unravel the mystery a little more. Perhaps someone had made an offhand comment about his master’s physique? If that were the case, Daniel would need to control his anger. It would need to be a newer attendee, he was certain none of the older members would ever have a bad word for Elian. Even at his 'roundest' he had a wonderfully appealing shape, and would be the envy of any woman.  
  
But how to answer the way Elian needed him to, while carefully balancing his own feelings against it. Then again, the young man had asked his opinion, and it was probably what he needed to hear, even if Daniel was terribly confused and doing his best to hide it.  
  
"If it isn't too bold, I don't believe it's possible for you to _not_ be beautiful," he said, voice carefully level.   
  
  
Elian let out a gusting sigh. The compliment _did_ make him feel better (they always did), but Daniel didn’t know what he was talking about.  
  
Yes, perhaps at his biggest _so far_, he was still attractive, but that was only because his biggest was maybe fifteen pounds that could be lost with enough sweat and determination (and bemoaning the lack of sweets). This was something entirely new.  
  
“I don’t mean just a little round, Daniel,” he said, eating the biscuit and washing it down with a hearty swallow of tea. The intense sweetness was more than welcome, and he would have been touched that Daniel got it _exactly_ the way he preferred if he wasn’t so distracted. “I mean incredibly, undeniably _fat._” He gestured, holding one hand out in front of him to mimic a ballooning belly as ponderously large as his father’s. “Because that’s my future if the Prince Regent has his way. Within _two years_ at most I’m going to be so fat we’ll have to squeeze me into my gowns. I won’t be able to show my face anywhere.”  
  
Elian took a breath, then another, finishing off the tea and setting it aside. He rose up onto his knees, hands dropping to his soft little tummy as he explained what had happened: the faux pas, the wager, the staggeringly high number he had drawn. How he was expected to more than _double_ his weight.  
  
“How will I even manage such a thing?” he ended with. “I could blink and put on thirty pounds, but _that much_?”  
  
  
Daniel listened with gentle eyes. It was difficult to keep a level head sometimes, given how much he cared for the man he served, when Elian was so very upset. Theatrics or no, Elian felt his emotions strongly, and they were all too real to him.  
  
He took Elian's hand once more, frowning as the story unfolded. All this from a slight that had not, to his ears, been meant as maliciously as it was taken. His lightly calloused fingers ran over his master's porcelain skin as he said, almost timidly, "You can... Simply refuse, can't you?"   
  
  
Elian tightened his fingers around Daniel’s, holding on as if Daniel were the only thing keeping him from blowing away. God only knew it felt like that sometimes. “I could refuse,” he said with an unhappy twist of his mouth. “But if I do, Prinny will give me—and my entire family—the cut direct. We would be ruined. No one in society would talk to us, no one would invite us anywhere, no one would allow us to do anything but slowly wither on the vine.”  
  
He blew out a soft breath, pushing his hair back with his free hand. “I know it makes me a terrible person to admit it, but if it was just about my family, I wouldn’t care so much. They’d happily live their whole lives on that stupid little farm,” _that stupid little farm_ being, of course, the family estate deep in the country, “but I always _swore_ I’d never let myself get trapped in that life. It was so stifling, growing up, surrounded by people who cared more about turnips than music or poetry or…or all the _real_ things in life. And if I allow Prinny to cut me, then I will never be allowed back in the salons here. I’ll never see my books printed again, I’ll never read my words to a crowd again, I’ll never be allowed access to the operas or the performance spaces I love and I’ll just curl up and _die_, Daniel. I think…” He swallowed and squeezed Daniel’s hand even tighter. “I think I would rather be fat and ugly than starved of all the things I love most in the world.”  
  
  
If Elian had left his reasoning at any less, Daniel would have encouraged him to refuse. It seemed the logical thing to him, but for his master...  
  
Nothing brought Elian to life like the arts. It didn't matter what; poetry, literature, music, paintings, sculpture, all of it brought a light to him like nothing Daniel had seen. To imagine that taken away from him was horrifying. The tight grip on his hand showed that poor Elian agreed.  
  
The number was too high to picture, at least on top of the poet's already delicately curvaceous frame, but Daniel tried to imagine him larger, plush hips straining the seams of one of his satin gowns, his hair framing a round face. Fat, perhaps he could see, but nothing would ever make Elian _ugly_. The word had no business being anywhere near him.  
  
"Sir, you will be beautiful at any weight. You _are_," he tried. Daniel was not overly good with words. "Maybe it will not even look that much. The number is staggering, but it might not be so bad as you're imagining."   
  
  
Elian tipped forward to let his forehead lightly rest against Daniel’s shoulder, soaking in his kindness with a sigh. Daniel was too good to him. Everyone—all his friends at Willowby who pulled him into their laps and let him laugh and sing and _be himself_, however strange that self may have seemed to anyone outside their sphere—was too good to him, but Daniel especially…  
  
He wasn’t sure where he’d be if not for this man. Manservant, secretary, keeper, confidant, friend. Daniel was all that and more. So of course Daniel would try to pretend for him, but Elian knew better.  
  
“I suppose there’s one way to find out,” he sighed, then pulled back. Elian swung a leg over the edge of the mattress and stood, already unlacing the delicate ribbon of his chemise as he strode to his (massive) closet full of everything from fine suits to gowns to theatrical wear. “Stay there,” he said, letting the gossamer gown drop unheeded on the floor behind him. Daniel helped him dress often enough that he had no shame in nudity. “I know what we need to see for _sure._”  
  
  
Daniel turned curiously, still stood by the bed, moving his hands behind his back as he watched Elian step out of his marvelous slip of a dress, revealing what was, without a doubt, a fine body, all perfectly pale skin and silky soft curves that begged to fill a firm hand. Daniel kept those thoughts to himself, of course, and always would, but nothing could stop him thinking them.  
  
As Elian searched, Daniel spotted flashes of elegant colours, instantly recognising the outfit and able to picture it on the young man. The royal blue jacket that made his master's hair shine especially beautifully, and the angelic white gown trimmed with silver that looked all the more alluring when Elian was a little heavier and it skimmed his hips, they were his personal favourites of the selection, but Elian was always a pleasure to dress.  
  
"Might I assist you with your search?" he asked, a tinge of amusement in his voice.   
  
  
“Found it!” he called back, disappearing deeper into the closet. There was rustling as he not-so-carefully pulled what he needed out of storage—the theatrical costumes were usually kept in pretty boxes, labeled so they were easy to locate—and tugged it on.  
  
A solid _thwump_ announced the soft, shapeless bag that Elian tossed out into the main room, its contents (nude-colored padding of various shapes and sizes) spilling out. Elian stepped out of the closet a moment later, hair pinned up in an endearingly messy bun, hands tangled in a puppeteer’s strings mass of ribbon to hold the resizable dress taut against him, body…  
  
Well. Body on full display, jewel-toned silk clinging like a second skin to an unexpectedly wider flare of hips and a gently sloping potbelly. It pushed out in a small dome, bigger than Elian had ever been, but not too wildly beyond his largest size. Even with his face and chest and arms unchanged, the illusion of the padding beneath the gown made him look downright plump.  
  
He turned to study himself in one of the mirrors, twisting this way and that to consider his abruptly rounded form. “I remembered I had this costume, from when I was in the spring theatrical a few years back,” he explained, holding the lacings taut with one hand and dropping his other to the little slope of his newly formed gut. “There’s more padding to be had, but I wanted to take stock in stages. This…” He hummed a breath, turning to the side and poking his new belly. “_This_ wouldn’t be so terrible, I suppose. What would you say this is: thirty pounds?”  
  
  
Daniel sighed quietly to himself as he watched the storage getting ransacked. He would need to replace everything before Elian turned in for the night, he couldn't tolerate allowing his master to wake up to a mess.  
  
His thought was interrupted by a significantly plumper Elian striding out, swathed in the bright silk that he only vaguely recognised. Daniel blinked in surprise, the padding looked remarkably convincing, and he had to admit, the additional curvature was quite appealing on Elian.   
  
"Yes, m'lord, I would agree with that," he said slowly, tilting his head to take in the sight. "Maybe a little more, but certainly no less."  
  
  
“Hmm,” Elian said, studying himself critically—turning this way and that. It was incredibly convincing, the padding molded by hand to give the impression of a plump tummy, the hips moving realistically as he shifted. “I feel like I could live with this if I had to, but I’m afraid this is just the beginning.”  
  
He sighed and dropped his hold on the laces. Immediately, the tight dress loosened, going tent-like around him.  
  
“All right,” he said, turning grimly toward the bag of padding. “Let’s try fifty, shall we?”  
  
  
Lightly hypnotised by the illusion of a softer Elian, it took Daniel a moment to respond, but when he did, he strode over and picked up an armful of the shaped padding from the bag on the floor, taking stock of the varying sizes in his grasp.  
  
"Something smaller to add atop this, then?" he mused, finding one that seemed appropriately sized, spreading a touch wider, and moving to take the lacing from the poet. It didn't take him long to figure out how the garment worked, and how the padding was held loosely in place.   
  
  
“Do you figure we need something for the chest yet?” he wondered as Daniel helped strap him into the additional pads. “Or should we save that for seventy-five?”  
  
It was always a little thrilling to be dressed and fussed over, even when the reason itself was so depressing. He kept the dress lifted up out of Daniel’s way so he could do his work.  
  
“Oh, and don’t forget to pad my arse. God knows it takes more than its fair share whenever I’m feeling particularly bloated.” He wriggled his hips in illustration.  
  
  
Oh, Daniel had noticed how proudly Elian's backside flared out with even the slightest fluctuation in his weight. With this much extra weight, it would be as lush and wide. With more? He couldn't dare think about it.   
  
Clearing his throat, he moved to fuss at the strapping, until Elian was rounded out nicely, the pads creating quite the believable silhouette. He sat back on his feet, looking up at his master, "There. Is that about right, sir? Shall I find something for the chest, or would you like to inspect this first?"   
  
  
“I think this is good for now,” Elian decided, studying the padding. With the dress lifted, it didn’t feel—or look—particularly real yet. But the moment he let the dress drop and drew the laces tight…  
  
He moaned, staring at the suddenly all-to-real flare of his hips, rounded arse, and larger belly. A part of him had been hoping that thirty to fifty wouldn’t be so much of a jump, but there was no denying that he looked almost truly fat now. Not huge, but absolutely soft, his belly pushing out into a clear paunch. It rounded proudly forward, not hanging down yet, but oh, he could imagine the rolls that would be forming at his sides and the all-too-present threat of that dreaded overhang.  
  
Some men, when they let themselves go so dramatically, bloated up like ticks with hard guts that moved before them like the prow of a ship. Not Elian. He knew from experience that he’d go soft all over: fluffy as a marshmallow in his lace-trimmed knickers.  
  
“Look at me,” Elian said, one hand dropping to his fleshy flank and giving it a squeeze. “I couldn’t possibly get any bigger than this without looking like I’m going to pop.” Though of course this was just the beginning.  
  
  
"And yet," Daniel said carefully, smoothing the dress over hips that looked staggeringly wide compared to how he knew Elian, though the illusion was not unattractive, "Still as beautiful as ever. I truly do think there will be no upper limit to your attractiveness."   
  
It was certainly more than had been invited, opinion-wise, but Elian had never been a conventional master, and they had been friends for a good amount of time. Daniel felt confident in offering his thoughts, especially in private.   
  
  
“Tell me that honestly when I’m at my biggest and I may just kiss you,” Elian said. He twisted back and forth, then gave a little hop as if to test the way his body might shake. The padding wasn’t fully realistic under that test, but it did give the illusion of a fat little potbelly jiggling.  
  
Elian sighed, dropping a hand down to stroke over his belly. “Going in degrees may not be the right approach,” he mused. “Do you think I should just see the worst of it right away? Force myself to confront what I may look like in two years’ time?”  
  
  
Daniel hurriedly ducked behind Elian to gather up more pads and hide his rapidly heating face, just in case it was a visible blush.  
  
"I think, sir, that we may be here all night if we were to take it in stages like this," he murmured, finding every soft pad that he could; he would certainly need them for the number Elian had drawn in the Prince's bizarre little game. "But if it becomes too daunting, we will stop and consider a different method."   
  
  
“No,” Elian sighed, lifting the dress again to let Daniel do his work. “You’re right: we’ll be here all night if I try to add just a little at a time. We may as well see the full damage. There’s nothing we can do for my face,” he added, glancing over. “But there are sleeves we can add for the arms, and padding for the thighs. We may have to improvise with some additional fabric to get me to the right weight.” Depressing though _that_ was. “But with a little ingenuity, we can make me blow up into a giant ball of fat. _Then_ you tell me how beautiful I am when I’m nothing but arse and belly.”  
  
He had to swallow down the bitterness he felt at the thought, even as they began strapping Elian into his future shape.  
  
  
Following his instructions, Daniel fetched the additional padding, and fabric, needed to sculpt a newly fattened figure for Elian. Every time he added more, and more, a little bit here and there, extra in the hips, just a bit more in the chest, Elian seemed to shake his head and disagree, it wasn't enough to emulate the significant weight.  
  
With the addition of some smaller garments, folded and tucked in specific places, they finally managed to etch out a new silhouette.   
  
Daniel stood up and moved to tug the voluminous dress down, assisting his master over the additional bulk.   
  
"I think this is it," he said quietly.   
  
  
There was no need to draw the laces to tighten the tent-like dress now. Instead, big as it was, it was practically creaking and straining over Elian’s “new body”, lovingly outlining every curve and dip and wide swell.  
  
He looked truly _fat_ now. Obese, the jewel-colored gown fitting him like a sausage casing, highlighting the impressive soaring folds of his belly. It clung to his thickened breasts (more than a handful now) and truly impressively wide hips.  
  
Elian’s plump arms seemed to be pressed outward by his new bulk, and he had trouble turning, fat thighs rubbing together. His large arse swayed with the movement, all of him sensually _rippling_. There were folds to his belly, a heavy roll widening out to a heavier roll, then a thick apron of fat, most of the damage centered around his belly and bottom half.  
  
It looked so real. He looked so lusciously _big_. And as he dropped his hands to his belly and massaged at the soaring arc of it in distress, it was suddenly easy to imagine exactly what he would look like in two years’ time.  
  
“Tell me now,” Elian said, stunned, looking at himself in the mirror. He had to back up (awkwardly, wobbling on his own feet with this new drastic change in balance) to even see all of himself this way. “Touch my belly and squeeze all this, this _blubber, _and tell me you still think I’m beautiful like _this_.”  
  
  
Daniel found he needed to take a step back himself, in order to truly take in the man before him. He'd always been drawn to Elian, either because of his fanciful, artistic nature, or his androgynous allure. The poet had always been a shining jewel of a man.   
  
Standing before Daniel was that same man, but so much _more_. With the illusion of vast, lush folds, rolling hips and thick thighs being so real under the straining satin, the only thing that broke the visual was how comparatively slim Elian remained in the face. He remained stunning, completely and utterly.   
  
"Sir," Daniel started, but stopped himself. It was no good to protest, Elian would get his way somehow. And so, Daniel stepped forward, obediently laying both hands on the wide dome of Elian's gut. In a manner, it even felt realistic; lush and soft, his hands sinking into it...  
  
  
Elian shuffled a step closer, belly bumping up against Daniel—filling his hands. He seemed to overflow everywhere, body a riot of curves upon curves upon curves.  
  
“Look at this,” he said, reaching up to touch his own chest, giving the round mounds a squeeze. “_This_ is what I’m going to look like, Daniel.”  
  
  
Daniel cleared his throat lightly, unsure of what to say, what to do. He couldn't see anything particularly wrong with the image. Fat was comfort, wealth, prosperity. What about those things could be unpleasant? Combined with gorgeous fiery hair framing a pretty face, what could be more appealing?  
  
"I think," he said softly, squeezing the gathering of rolls at Elian's hips before hastily disguising the gesture as fussing over the fabric, "That you are the most beautiful person in the world. I truly don't believe that will change, m'lord, even with this."   
  
  
Elian’s expression softened. He didn’t believe Daniel—not even a little—but it still felt good to hear the words.  
  
“Thank you,” he said, leaning in (his big stomach bumping inelegantly into Daniel, absolutely in the way) and brushing a soft kiss to the corner of Daniel’s cheek, near enough to his mouth that it could almost be called a true kiss. “That means a lot to hear.”  
  
He shifted, and his bulk pushed up against Daniel again, belly so large (and Elian so unused to the extra heft) that it easily got in the way. Elian laughed, looking down at where they were pressed together. “God. I’m certainly going to need your help if this is what I’m doomed to deal with.”  
  
  
While Daniel knew it was not on purpose, Elian's overstuffed belly bumping up against him was impossibly distracting, even more so than usual. Elian was not particularly shy with himself, and yet Daniel had never experienced distraction such as _this_. So much full softness, pushing up against him, punishing the satins that held it back, ready to rip delicately constructed seams. The young poet was not only the first man Daniel had ever been so taken with, he was the first of any sex. Before Elian, he wouldn't have thought twice about anyone's attractiveness.  
  
And so, when the beautiful creature laid the sweetest little kiss at his cheek, Daniel almost ceased to think rationally, his hands squeezing the plush, rolling hills that were to be Elian's hips eventually.   
  
"Of course, sir. Anything you need, I will gladly provide," he said, cursing how low and husky his voice had become in that moment.   
  
  
Elian flushed a little at that, though he couldn’t quite understand what it was about Daniel’s words (Daniel’s delivery) that had him flustered. He was more often shameless than not, free with his affection—so why was his stomach fluttering now?  
  
“Well,” he said, taking a careful step back. “Let’s put this all to the test, shall we? And then I’ll need help planning out meals that will manage…well, that will manage to get me to this point. I’ll probably need you to force me, a little,” he had to admit, taking careful, ungainly, wobbly steps to a nearby chair. “I can be remarkably childish; I know this isn’t a shock to you,” Elian added with a quick smile over his shoulder. “But I _have_ to do this, and you’re probably going to _have_ to remind me of that over and over. Even if that means holding me down and shoving cake in my mouth. _Oof_.”  
  
The last was said as he dropped down into the chair, the padding folding over and under its wooden arms in a remarkably realistic display of flesh spilling past the piece of furniture’s resistance.  
  
  
Daniel knew _that_ part too, of Elian being childish, but had always found those rare times rather endearing, if he were honest. He ignored the odd feeling of hoping he did need to urge Elian a bit more firmly, and instead took in the view.   
  
There was so much of the young man puffing out over the arms of the chair that Daniel wondered if, were it real heavy, soft flesh, Elian might get stuck there, wedged in completely by his womanly hips.  
  
"I will make preparations first thing in the morning, unless you would rather I fetch something to eat right away," he said, inclining his head slightly while he tried not to reach out and again run his hands over the rolls of flesh, especially now that they were forced up, arching out and covering a good deal of Elian's lap. He wasn't even completely sure why this, of all situations, had him so fascinated. Fat figures, while never a negative to him as they were to some, had never sparked this before, but the thought of his warm, pretty, theatrical master swollen up like one of the spoilt, lazy little lordlings, until all of his clothing hugged and emphasised every curve... It made his mouth dry, and heat creep up his neck.  
  
  
There was a very good chance that even with just the padding, he’d have a difficult time prying himself free. Elian was thoroughly wedged into the chair, wood creaking as his “fattened” hips and sides pushed against the spindly arms.  
  
“We might as well start now,” he sighed, leaning back in the chair with his hands braced on his bulging belly until he really _did_ resemble the spoilt, lazy lordlings of Daniel’s imagination. “At least with the rest of those biscuits, or any other sweets you can scare up. “I have a long way to go if I’m to look like this,” he gave the fat a smack, “in such a short time.”  
  
  
Again, Daniel inclined his head, his throat tight as he managed, "Of course, m'lord. I will be as swift as possible."   
  
He turned on his heel, stopping only briefly to fetch the tea tray, and hurried almost silently to the kitchen, where he mused for on what to do as he eyed the contents of the pantry critically. Was it presumptuous to take Elian every single sweet thing he could find, as though calling him greedy? Or would he appreciate it as a show of his desire to help?   
  
Before he spent too long floundering, he decided it best to gather as much as possible, with the disclaimer that he of course did not expect his master to finish it. Perhaps, he thought, he could even help Elian feel better by offering the perspective that _nothing _was off limits to him now. He was free to indulge as much as he pleased, and more.   
  
Daniel returned to the bedroom with another tray, fully laden with biscuits, cake, bread and cheese, sliced fruit, and a large glass of brandy, in case Elian needed that too.   
  
  
Elian was exactly where Daniel had left him—head tilted back, red hair falling loose over his shoulders. He looked up when Daniel entered, eyeing the towering tray with a single quirk of his brow.  
  
That was…a lot. But then again, he mused, he might as well get used to _a lot_ of just about everything as soon as possible.  
  
“All right, then,” he said, subtly adjusting his thighs wider apart as if bracing himself. His hands stayed cupping his belly, as if he had to hold it in place. “If you wouldn’t mind feeding me? All this weight makes my arms dreadful tired.”  
  
  
Daniel dutifully moved to Elian's side, though the request gave him pause, if only because the idea was unexpectedly appealing to him.  
  
"As you wish," he said softly, though there was a long pause as he considered where to even start. He picked up a plate of sponge cake, delicately flavoured with apples and cinnamon, and still remarkably fluffy despite having been made the previous morning. He held a large forkful up to Elian's lips, the barest hint of colour in his cheeks. It was getting difficult to forget his master was not even remotely fat (at least for the moment) and the image of him, huge and lounging comfortably, his mouth full of sweet delights, was too inviting.   
  
  
Elian opened his mouth obediently, delicately taking the bite. He always was a rather dainty eater, even when he indulged a bit too much. There was something sensual about the way he did most things, each movement and look an unconsciously choreographed show: lashes flickering, lips parting for another bite, then another, throat working as he swallowed.  
  
He swiped out his tongue to catch a stray crumb, lower lip left wet. The only thing decidedly _not_ delicate about Elian was his appetite, which had always been his downfall anyway. Now he let Daniel feed him the entire plate of sponge cake without a beat of hesitation, making quick work of what would have (on any other, normal day) been a few days worth of forbidden treats.  
  
“Mm,” Elian murmured, swallowing the last of the cake. “All right, I do admit that there is at least one benefit to getting fat. I can’t remember the last time I let myself have so many sweets…and goodness, there’s more to come, isn’t there?” He gave a little laugh, cheeks flushing as he glanced between Daniel and the tray. “I already feel like such the glutton, but I’ll admit…I’m eager for more. What else you’re your poor, fat little master?” he teased.  
  
  
"I had been planning to point that out to you," Daniel said, mirth in his gentle voice as he set the empty plate to one side, and picked up something savoury to break up the flavour of the cake. "I have hated taking sweets from the dinner table that I knew you wanted, but denied yourself," he explained, almost melting into the action of holding more food up to Elian's mouth. "If you don't mind my saying so."   
  
It was most frustrating how gorgeous the poet was in every movement, even the slightest shift in his position as he got comfortable. Unconsciously, he rested his free hand against the dramatic swell of Elian's carefully created belly, perhaps offering him mouthfuls beyond what was strictly necessary.   
  
  
Elian couldn’t feel the touch, but he arched up into it nonetheless, almost as if encouraging Daniel to rub his great big belly. His gaze lifted, locking with Daniel’s as he ate—and ate—and ate, always ready for the next bite. He was melted back into the chair, letting this happen to him; letting Daniel feed him the savory food, then something sweet again, then bites of cheese followed by lemon biscuits. His lips were glistening with sugar and his lashes began to lower as he willingly let Daniel gorge him, but he never looked away.  
  
There was something almost…intimate about being fed by his friend and manservant. There was something intimate about Daniel’s hand on him, his other hand spooning him bites of this or that. As his actual stomach began to swell beneath all that padding, Elian couldn’t help but wonder if it’d feel good when Daniel was touching his actual skin—when he could rub his stomach and let Elian laze back, dazed, from everything he had consumed.  
  
He flushed darker at the thought and opened his mouth gamely for another bite.  
  
  
Daniel gladly pushed more and more delicious morsels into Elian's waiting mouth, unknowingly increasing his pace, his large hand rubbing small circles over the padded belly that nestled against him, his eyes darkened at the unexpected sensuality as he continued to imagine Elian truly _that_ big.  
  
"Are you alright, sir?" he whispered, licking his lips slightly.   
  
  
“No,” Elian groaned, cupping his overflowing gut as if that might help the pressure in his own stomach. Then he laughed, cheeks cherry red and eyes dazed. “But keep going. I already feel like I’m going to pop, so we may as well finish off that tray and then roll me to bed. If this is going to be my every night, I may as well get used to it.”  
  
  
Squeezing the silk beneath his hand, Daniel nodded, and continued offering his master biscuits, alternately pushing them past his lips with more force. God, but he was gorgeous like that, flushed and stuffed, his hair lying loose about his shoulders.  
  
"You have done well, don't push too hard, m'lord," he said gently, even as he picked up another sweet.   
  
  
“Oof,” he groaned again, all but laying back in the chair now. His stomach was so packed it hurt a little, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. (Truthfully, it was nothing more than he’d done to himself before in a secret, shameful binge he’d never dared tell anyone about. There were good reasons he sometimes got a little curvier than usual.) “No, I have to finish,” Elian said. “There’s just a bit more.”  
  
The tray was all but decimated, only a couple of sweets left.  
  
Elian obediently opened his mouth and determinedly chewed and swallowed, _squirming_ against the pressure in his boated gut and the way it raised the padding up as if he were swelling under Daniel’s expert, gentle hands.  
  
Just six more sweets to go.  
  
Five.  
  
Four.  
  
Three.  
  
Two. He was puffing for breath as he swallowed the next-to-last one, sweat breaking across his brow and chair groaning as he moved. “Last one,” Elian managed, eyes glazed over. He opened his mouth, ready to be fed.  
  
  
Torn between wanted to get the experience over with for Elian's sake, and wanting for his own sake to carefully memorise his bloated master in all his perfection, Daniel eventually slowed, letting Elian take his shaking breaths between bites. Curiously, though he should have realised sooner, the satin dress which had been so strained against the padding, was now very visibly at capacity.  
  
Were he to peel silks and stuffing from around him, would Elian's pleasingly soft middle have rounded out into a firm gut, small but standing out from his body, packed to the limits? It was in his normal duties to undress his master, of course, so he would likely get to see his handiwork, and that was the most wonderful realisation.  
  
With the final biscuit offered up to the young lord's waiting mouth, Daniel dared to lean in and chase it with the slightest peck of a kiss. It was not the first time they had enjoyed such contact, but it was one of only a handful of times Daniel had been the one to initiate it.   
  
"Very good, sir," he cooed. "Do you need assistance with your clothing, or would you prefer I got rid of the tray first?"   
  
  
Elian hummed an exhausted breath at the kiss, sprawled back in the chair as if drugged. He had done it. With Daniel’s help, he had stuffed himself like a Christmas goose. Right now, he was tired and triumphant enough not to be panicking over what all this would mean—it just felt, simply, _good_.  
  
Just as being taken care of felt _good_. Elian lifted his heavy arms to Daniel, not even bothering to try getting up on his own. The dress creaked in warning at the motion. “I can’t stand,” he said sleepily. “Too full. Help me up and get this off of me. I want to go to _bed_.”  
  
His breathing was still labored, and he felt squeezed uncomfortably where earlier the dress and padding hadn’t been all that bad. God, he felt huge, and not just because of the fat suit.  
  
  
"Yes, sir," Daniel said, setting the tray aside and standing, momentarily mesmerised once more by that tremendously obese illusion. He took Elian's fine, pale hands and pulled him up.   
  
At least, he tried to. It wasn't as if he was stuck, but he was certainly wedged in, and the chair was holding onto the padding quite well. Daniel paused, unsure what to do.   
  
  
Elian gave a huff of annoyance, wriggling as if that could set him free. The chair groaned in warning. “Damn thing,” he muttered. He dropped Daniel’s hands and reached down to pull and pry at where the padding overflowed the delicate wooden arms. It was a ridiculously snug fit—the chair was on the smaller side even for Elian at his normal size. Now, it was a trap, holding him prisoner.  
  
He tried squeezing and arching and moving about, but truthfully, he was too impossibly stuffed to put in much effort. Finally, panting, he slumped back again: wedged so tight there was little hope for it.  
  
“Either you need to really yank me out of this,” he said, “risking breaking the dratted arms off, or we’ll have to rip open the dress and open up the padding to let me escape _that_ way. I am _not_ sleeping in this chair.”  
  
  
"Yes, m'lord, of course," Daniel said, though there was a slight furrow in his brow. It was one of the most prominent of the faint lines that enhanced his face. He moved to lean over Elian, pressing his hands firmly into the padding at the arms.  
  
"Hold my shoulders. If I pull you out while manipulating the pads, we may be able to avoid destroying either the chair or your dress," he explained softly. "And then I will help you to bed."   
  
  
Elian did as he was told, reaching up to grip Daniel’s shoulders. This way, their faces were very close, breath puffing hot together. It was an undeniably intimate pose—almost sexual—and if Daniel had been anyone _but_ himself, Elian probably would have laughed and leaned in for a searching kiss.  
  
But other than the occasional soft, affectionate brushes of lips to lips, Elian did not kiss Daniel. He was off-limits and had been since he’d come into Elian’s employ. Elian’s _previous_ manservant had tumbled into his bed all too willingly, and that had ended in terrible fits of jealousy and rages when Elian let the Willowby Court boys manhandle him a bit. He’d finally had to let Sampson go, and he _still _sometimes had to deal with the fallout. He was not making that mistake again, especially when Daniel was so dear to him.  
  
“I trust you,” he murmured, a breath away, blinking wide blue eyes up at Daniel. Waiting for him to tug him free, dress and chair unscathed.  
  
  
Despite their close proximity, Daniel remained stony faced in his determination to get Elian up with as much dignity as possible, and with minimal damage.  
  
It was uncomfortable for both of them; Daniel's forearms rubbing hard against the wooden arms of the chair, Elian being squashed all the tighter for having him there, but with a very firm grip on the poet's waist, Daniel slowly started to pull him free. It was nearly flawless, until there was a sudden sharp ripping noise as the seams of the dress caught in the arm of the chair and pulled open, leaving a gaping hole, but Daniel was too close to freeing his master to pay it any mind by that point, and soon Elian was in his arms, both of them a little red faced and breathless.  
  
"I'm sorry about the gown, m'lord, I will send for it to be repaired first thing in the morning," he said as he immediately set about removing everything the poor man was trapped in.   
  
  
Elian just waved that off. “It doesn’t matter. I won’t be wearing it again,” he said as the ripped gown came off, followed by layer after layer of padding. He’d stripped down under it, so there was nothing but his undergarments left after the last bit was pulled away. Elian sighed in palpable relief, grabbing the collar of his fine lawn shirt and yanking it over his head. He tossed it aside blindly, shaking out his hair and taking what felt like his first breath in hours.  
  
“God, the free air feels good,” he said, dropping his hands to his spine and arching his back. The motion made his painfully swollen tummy stick out even farther. It was flushed a rosy pink, hard-packed and surprisingly _round_. It bulged in a tight ball from Elian’s frame, and he looked down to study himself with a tired, wry expression. “Good Lord, no wonder everything got so tight. Look what you did to me, Daniel.” Elian dropped a tentative hand down to touch his own overstuffed belly. “You’ve already started to make me fat.”  
  
  
Daniel bundled everything back into the bag that had been discarded on the floor, resolving to repair the gown anyway, regardless of whether it was used again or not. Nothing of Elian's could be less perfect than him, he wouldn't allow it where he could help it.  
  
He looked up as he was closing the bag, startled by how much the young man's stomach was jutting out, how red it was. Daniel stood and lightly put his warm palm to the side of the swollen dome, glancing from the flushed skin there to Elian's pretty face. He felt stuffed beyond capacity under his hands, a more than head start on the bizarre challenge given to him.   
  
"Let me get you comfortable," he managed, easing Elian towards the bed, unable to address the playful accusation.   
  
  
Elian just mumbled agreement, allowing Daniel to help him into the bed and settled down. He had to roll over onto his back, stomach too sensitive for any other position. He kept the covers kicked down, hands absently rubbing at the hard, flushed skin—moaning very softly. The waist of his underclothes had been pushed down by his stuffed belly, riding low on his hips. Every slightly labored breath made him expand and contract, expand and contract, and from this angle, he looked almost pregnant.  
  
It was so easy to imagine that overstuffed gut getting bigger, and bigger. Easier still to imagine his hips widening, his chest softening, his whole body puffing up. But for now…  
  
Elian moaned again, cupping his own swollen flesh. “Next time,” he said, eyes closed, “perhaps fewer cakes and more laudanum.”  
  
  
"I'll make sure we keep plenty in," Daniel assured him as he gently brushed Elian's silken hair from his face. There was something undeniably enjoyable about helping his master to bed in this state. Again his hand dropped to the young lord's poor belly, rubbing gently, applying the slightest pressure in the hopes of easing the pain.  
  
"Do you need anything else, sir?" he whispered, unable to keep from squeezing the tight skin just a touch.   
  
  
Elian let his own hands drop, breathing out a relieved sigh. That…felt…heavenly.  
  
“Just keep doing that as I fall asleep,” he murmured, eyes fluttering closed. He was already quite close, the mental and physical exhaustion of the day overwhelming him, and Daniel’s hands soothing away the pressure in his bloated gut. “M’so tired.”   
  
  
Daniel did as he was instructed, carefully and gently stroking the strained flesh as he watched Elian sinking heavily into sleep.  
  
Once he was certain his master was out, he set about moving the tray, and the costume bag, from Elian's bedroom, moving to lay the covers over the sleeping lord (if he awoke, he did not want him to be cold), before slipping away.   
  
It was only to be a few hours before Daniel would need to rise for his duties, and so chose to remain awake, washing in lieu of rest for the moment. He would need to plan Elian's meals, have his tailor informed and ready, speak with the staff to avoid any tittering or similar that could upset him...   
  
There was _much_ to do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm curious: now that you've met all three of the main couples, which is your favorite?


	7. Elian & Daniel: Present

**1814 (two years after the wager)**  
**An exclusive house party**  
**Daniel & Elian**   
  
  
**A Meeting of Titans**  
  
Arthur and Alex’s country house was several hours outside of London by carriage. Leaving early in the morning—with a single stop for a mix of breakfast and lunch at a well-loved tavern along the way—they would just make it to the gorgeous estate by tea time. Plenty of time to greet their hosts and get settled into their room before festivities began, but not so early that they felt like an imposition.  
  
It was a pleasant enough drive, the windows down to let in plenty of fresh air. The roads were good enough, with only a bit of jostling, and the expensive carriage was pure luxury at its finest. It should have been a worry-free trip…but Elian kept gnawing on his lower lip, blue eyes watching the countryside race by even as his pudgy hands unconsciously massaged the soft overhang of his massive belly.  
  
Tonight was the night. The weighing would commence before dinner, each of the very fattest lordlings (those who had been given two years instead of one to gain a shocking hundreds of pounds) waddling up before the group to be poked, prodded, measured and weighed by the Prince Regent’s own physician. If the scale tipped over the number the lord had been given, then it was time to celebrate. But if Elian had somehow fallen short of his significant goal… If he’d ruined his body but hadn’t managed to get quite fat _enough_…  
  
He sighed, fingers squeezing tighter, and glanced over at the opposite bench seat where his former manservant turned lover was unpacking a series of small, carefully wrapped boxes of—  
  
Elian lifted his round face, sniffing. Even though he hadn’t eaten all that long ago, his stomach rumbled at the smell.  
  
“What are you doing?” he asked, shifting a little closer in curiosity. “We’re only an hour away. Don’t tell me you’re getting pudgy enough that you can’t wait so long.” The words were teasing, his smile a little wicked. While Daniel was nowhere near as big as he was, it delighted Elian to no end that the other man had gone a bit soft around the edges too, flabby belly pooching out where he sat.  
  
  
The scent of sugar and fruit filled the carriage very quickly, the heavily sweetened honey tarts in the boxes as fresh as they could be in the circumstances. The pastries were sticky, golden, and smelling wonderful. Daniel was sorely tempted by one himself, but _he_ did not have an important goal that needed to be met.   
  
"These, Elian, are for you. All of them," he said, matching the wicked smile on his lover's face in a far more subtle way. He stroked the gloriously pillowy lower fold of Elian's belly as he held up a tart only inches from his lips, "I want to ensure you meet your goal." _And exceed it. _  
  
  
That touch, mingled with that wicked look, and the pure heavenly scent of honey tarts (a particular weakness of his ravenous sweet tooth) sent an electric shiver down Elian’s spine. But he was feeling a bit out of sorts, which translated into a spoiled sort of brattiness he couldn’t seem to help but dip into now and again.  
  
(Not that Daniel ever seemed to mind when he was being particularly bratty. In fact, his lover seemed to _like_ it.)  
  
“If you haven’t fattened me up into a prize hog by now, it’s surely too late,” he sniffed, turning his face subtly away from the tart…no matter how much his mouth was beginning to water. “Nothing you do now could possibly make me big enough.”  
  
It came out sounding like a dare.  
  
  
Daniel's small smirk quirked a little wider as he smoothly moved his hand to cup Elian's rounded cheek and shoved the tart into his mouth whole, moving to catch any crumbs before they dared flake onto the redhead's perfect attire.  
  
He allowed his lover time to adjust and chew, at least for the moment. How forcefully the rest of the boxes went was truly up to Elian; a sentiment that was clear from the quirk of Daniel's brow.  
  
"I'm almost certain you will have easily reached that ridiculous number," he said softly, moving both hands to the wide swell of Elian's magnificent gut and jiggling it just a little (the carriage ride was doing a decent job of that before he even touched him). His voice low, husky but dangerously sweet, he added, "But I would rather be certain. Now, are you going to eat nicely for me, or do I need to _help_?"  
  
  
Elian moaned around the tart, chewing and swallowing with gusto. This was one of his favorite games, and he loved seeing Daniel switch from mild and sweet to stern. Forceful. It made a shiver run up his spine as he let his fat thighs spread, belly settling easily in the exposed space.  
  
He was well and truly _fat _now. Big enough that his buttery soft belly spilled over a bit into Daniel’s space, the carriage (large as it was) made too small by his bulk. Longer red hair framed perfectly round cheeks and a heavy second chin. Soft, almost pert breasts rose above rolls upon rolls, flaring out into massive hips and a rump only exceeded by Arthur.  
  
They had truly succeeded in making a mountain out of the soft poet, his excesses of soft, pillowy fat shaking and jiggling with each rut of the carriage. But even now, his eyes were sparking with challenge, and he pretended to turn his face away.  
  
“You’ve already made me impossibly fat,” Elian pretended to sulk. “Just _look_ at me. I’m almost all belly now. You can’t make me even _fatter_. I won’t let you.”  
  
But of course he wet his lower lip, mouth subtly open, waiting for what Daniel would do. As fun as eating could be, sometimes being _made_ to eat was even better.  
  
  
"My sweet, I would be genuinely surprised if you lifted a chubby little finger to stop me from making you much, much bigger," Daniel purred as he picked up another sugary tart and pushed it past Elian's inviting lips. He barely waited for him to finish chewing before he was insistently pressing more pastry to his mouth, licking his own lips. He dared to reach up and squeeze one of Elian's perfect breasts, noting to himself that the poet was more womanly, more gorgeously androgynous now than ever.   
  
  
Elian _moaned_, arching both into the touch and the faux-rough treatment. He pretended to turn his head away as if to deny the next little tart, struggling against the confines of the carriage. “It isn’t fair,” he gasped, unable to get very far—there was nowhere to retreat to, and when he shifted again, the side of his belly brushed against Daniel’s knee. “I don’t want it.”  
  
But he wanted it very, very much.  
  
  
The pillowy warmth against his knee sent a jolt through Daniel, and he shifted closer, moving his legs to accommodate Elian's gut between them, ready with the next tart (though he was always cautious with his former master's "shortness" of breath, always ready to stop at the first sign of genuine discomfort).  
  
"I heard how your stomach complained the second I opened these up," he said huskily, "I know you want to eat. It's rare that you don't. And frankly, my sweet, _you haven't a choice_. You need to be as big and heavy as possible for tonight. Now eat, we haven't a long time to finish these."   
  
  
“You’re so cruel to me,” he whispered, eyes bright with so much love it almost hurt to see. Elian deliberately arched his hips up so his hanging belly rubbed against Daniel’s bracketing knees, the soft rasp of material electric. He reached up, chubby fingers curling around his own soft breasts, pressing them together to form a deep line of cleavage.  
  
He’d changed into one of his prettiest gowns the moment they were free of prying eyes, the low cut of his bodice framing him nicely. With his now much longer hair loose in poetic waves and his beauty mark clear against the flush on his round cheeks, he looked positively angelic.  
  
What _wasn’t_ angelic was the way he subtly caught the fabric of his dress between his ring and pinkie fingers and began tugging _up_, the hem of his gown lifting, threatening to expose pale, dimpled flesh.  
  
“You make me eat so much, I can’t bear it. But I can’t stop you.”  
  
  
"That's right," Daniel murmured, his dark eyes twinkling with lust and mischief as he eyed what Elian was doing with a hunger of his own. "You can't."  
  
He lifted another tart up to the young lord as he squeezed one of those incredibly thick thighs, losing himself somewhat in stuffing Elian's mouth, barely giving him time to speak, until the first wrap of tarts was gone, all the while cupping rolls of silky soft flesh that would only grow larger as the season went on. Initially, Daniel couldn't imagine his master so very obese, but as time had gone on, he found himself imagining Elian the size of Arthur, _bigger _even, his delectable pear-shape growing more and more irresistible. How quickly he had tumbled into the realms of marvelous deviancy, he thought, without a care.   
  
  
Elian sucked on one of Daniel’s fingers as he force-fed him another tart, skirt now lifted to his deep belly button, revealing a spill of doughy flesh. There wasn’t time or space for actual sex now, of course, but this was just as good for him—and wasn’t it funny how intrinsically this had become linked to eroticism for them, when he had been so horrified by even the idea of becoming this fat, lazy creature just two years ago?  
  
Now, he reveled in it. He felt beautiful and desirable, and the bigger he grew, the more he _felt_ Daniel’s admiration. Even when they played these games (especially, maybe, when they did), he felt like the sexiest man in the world.  
  
“Squeeze my belly between your thighs,” he breathed, urgently massaging his own breasts, “and make me take more. My stomach is so stretched out, so used to _more_, I barely felt that little bit you gave me.”  
  
  
Ever the servant, no matter the game, nor his relationship, no matter the firm role he played, Daniel obeyed, leaning closer and shifting them so he could do as he was asked. Every inch of Elian was plush, built for pleasure and excess by _his_ hand. It was heady, thinking how much he had created the gorgeous man before him.  
  
"You-" he laughed huskily as he unwrapped more treats (lemon, to vary the flavour and encourage him to eat more), "Are a greedy harlot, Elian. Greedy and demanding, and I adore it."   
  
  
“It’s because you spoil me so,” Elian said with a wicked grin. “You spoil me, and let me laze around, and then you suddenly turn around and paddle me for being lazy and spoiled.” He leaned forward, across the small aisle, and bit into the tart barely after Daniel had unwrapped it. The motion made his belly bulge out, pushing Daniel’s thighs apart.  
  
Judging by the gleam in Elian’s eyes, he knew exactly what he was doing.  
  
Two years after the first night they’d dressed him in padding to see what the future might hold, Elian was a changed man. He was bigger than _either_ had imagined; that poor first dress wouldn’t hope to fit on him now. The weight was distributed differently, too, so much of it spreading into massive hips and backside, huge thighs, and a belly that spilled down between them. He was fat everywhere, but there was no mistaking where the bulk of his gain had gone, making him look like old depictions of Aphrodite, or fertility statues. And how he loved to use his body to tease Daniel and his friends.  
  
Arthur may have been bigger still, and the group’s mascot, but Elian had his own special charms…perhaps helped along by the fact that he wasn’t weighted down to one place all night. Yet.  
  
“Feed me more, Daniel,” he whispered, eyes on Daniel’s face. “Feed me all of them. I want to be swollen up—_stuffed_—and so round they can’t keep their hands off your hard work.”  
  
  
Daniel couldn't help himself, and gave Elian's belly a light slap, letting his fingers sink into the lush fat on impact. Goodness, but Elian was an expert tease, every word measured and intelligently delivered for maximum effect. Too clever and too beautiful, really.   
  
"Yes, m'lord," he purred, his throat terribly dry, this time forcefully pressing the pastry against Elian's lips, cupping a hand beneath his doughy second chin, as the insistence of the motion was most certainly going to cause crumbs.   
  
  
He let his lashes flutter closed, mouth opening obediently for the treat. Elian made a _show_ of eating it, humming approval as he chewed and chewed and swallowed, tongue darting out to brush over his full lower lip. Almost instantly, his mouth was open again, waiting for more—and then more—and then more.  
  
He was truly insatiable. Once he’d found the hedonistic pleasure in eating, his whole life had changed.  
  
As Daniel fed him sweet after sweet, Elian began to massage his belly again. He rucked up the skirt of his dress the rest of the way, tucking the voluminous fabric beneath the crease of his breasts to bare the entire expanse of his massive middle. It was milk-pale and so soft it was like gripping clouds. His vanity (and Daniel’s helping hands) had kept him carefully oiled and moisturized throughout his massive gain, so there were hardly any marks marring all that skin. As he swallowed the fattening treats Daniel fed him, Elian hefted up his wobbly flesh and let it drop again, fingers digging in to help make room for more.  
  
(With Elian, there was almost always room for more.)  
  
  
Every minor act was incredible, and Daniel caught himself watching Elian when he had thoroughly planned to be firmer, to stuff his lover until he was whining, caught in the sweet space of bloated, between pain and pleasure.  
  
He rubbed large circles over the quivering rolls that were still being squeezed between his thighs when he dipped his free hand for another tart, only to find his fingers hit nothing. Another box had gone without him really realising it.   
  
"What a gluttonous lover I have," he said lowly, patting Elian's stomach where he had been rubbing. A brief glance outside suggested they were close, and that he would need the poet to make very short work of the final box.   
  
  
“I’m only what you’ve made me,” Elian murmured, voice throaty. He was flushed, breathing hard as he tipped back in his seat farther away from Daniel. He’d spotted that look and saw the calculation in his eyes, and he wanted to make this fun for them. “Now how fast can you make me take the rest? With this belly between us,” he gave himself an alluring jiggle, “you’ll have to reach. Maybe press that own little gut you’ve been growing against me. Let it rest on me, flesh to flesh, as you shove pastries down my throat and get ready to roll me in to be weighed before everyone.”  
  
His legs spread, then squeeze against his own stuffed belly, each jostle of the carriage making him jiggle and sway. His thighs, arse, are so big they almost take up the entire bench seat.  
  
“What do you think everyone will make of your handiwork? Will they be shocked to see me like this? Will they marvel at just how bloody _fat _you’ve made me? God, I’m massive. How could I ever let you do this to me?” Elian’s eyes glittered, lips curled up at the corners.  
  
  
Though it was difficult with them being so cramped (his lover being so fat), Daniel moved closer, half kneeling on the floor of the carriage with his legs turned and tangled with Elian's, and half resting on the redhead's luxurious body. He was surprised that he had the presence of mind to reach back and snatch the final box and rest it between them. He wasted no time, barely letting Elian finish his sentence. Daniel's skin was already hot, his whole body alive with their teasing of one another, the air around them heavy.  
  
The box was gone so quickly Daniel wished that he'd prepared another. And another, and another. With their bodies pressed together, he could feel Elian's belly was pushed out further, telltale firmness beginning beneath his layers upon layers of softness. Listening to him breathe heavily as he chewed, Daniel dared press his face to Elian's chest, laying a kiss between his breasts.  
  
"There," he whispered, moving the empty box away to rest with the others and again lightly slapping his lover's pale flesh with one hand, "I would have liked to bring more, since your belly can accommodate so much, but I do so enjoy seeing you swell up over the course of an evening."  
  
He awkwardly moved back to his seat, neatening himself and taking in the sight of Elian spread out so wide, his massive belly exposed to the evening and wobbling deliciously with the movements of the carriage. Then he started fussing over him, pulling his pretty gown back down (and spending a touch too long smoothing it out), before taking a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully dabbing at Elian's face. He was perfect, of course, but Daniel liked to make certain.   
  
  
“You’re so good to me,” Elian murmured, letting Daniel fuss over him with a small, sweet smile. It had taken him far, far too long to realize just how much he loved Daniel—and how much Daniel loved him in return—but by now he was wide-eyed and understanding. This, as strange as some people would find their relationship, was pure _love._ Daniel would move the earth and stars for him, and Elian would do the same.  
  
He reached down to cup Daniel’s face, brushing his thumb across his jaw, expression nothing but soft.  
  
The carriage came to a rocking stop moments after, just outside the beautiful estate. Elian glanced out the window, then laughingly groaned. “And now we both get to pay for that little show,” he teased, pulling his hand away, “when we find out if I can actually haul myself up and out of this thing right now. Did you really have to bring _so many_ boxes?”  
  
It may have been far less than he could manage, but it was still more than enough to have him swollen and languid-feeling.  
  
  
"My sweet," Daniel said, voice rippling with mirth, following Elian's gaze (though it meant reluctantly tearing it away from Elian himself), "You could be twice as fat and I dare say I would still see you dance to your feet at the promise of handsome lords wanting to dote on you and feed you truffles."  
  
And they were certainly handsome, some of Elian's favourites that Daniel had learnt of, though God only knew what size any of them were now. Daniel was quite eager to see his lover fawned over. It meant the world to him that others could appreciate Elian as much as he did.   
  
  
Elian laughed. “You know me so well,” he said, reaching out so Daniel could give him a hand up. Despite his size, he was usually remarkably light on his feet, but the combination of cramped carriage and full belly were working against him now. It took a heave or two before he was standing, bulk crowding Daniel back, belly knocking against Daniel’s knees as he leaned over and playfully squeezed Daniel’s own pooching gut.  
  
Elian pressed in for a quick, soft kiss, biting playfully at Daniel’s lower lip and giving him a wobble (it never hurt to remind Daniel that Elian wasn’t the only one changed by this game they played) before moving to the carriage door. The whole carriage dipped and swayed beneath him, but it had been specially made to carry even heavier, so there was no tell-tale groan…that is, until Elian took the footman’s hand and stepped out the door.  
  
Tried. Until Elian took the footman’s hand and _tried_ to step out the door.  
  
Even with a carriage designed to carry his weight, the doors were snugger than he liked—especially for hips as ample as his. Add to that a very full belly and all the bloat associated with it, and it was almost inevitable that his hips would drag against the doorframe…then get _stuck_.  
  
“Oh!” Elian said, startled. The whole carriage rocked when he tried to step forward and got jerked back into place.  
  
  
Already somewhat flustered by the press of his generously proportioned lover, and the light graze of teeth of on his lip, the sight of Elian's wide hips wedged in the narrow doorframe of the carriage all but floored Daniel.  
  
From behind Elian, he had the very finest view of his lush backside bouncing in his gown with the struggle. Daniel unashamedly spread both hands on the soft expanse, squeezing roughly before laying a sharp little slap on it.  
  
"Too fat to even leave your carriage, and that's _before_ we have even started," he whispered behind him, words for Elian's ears only.   
  
  
Elian gave a startled squeak at the smack, jerking hard—and getting absolutely nowhere. His hips were well and truly wedged, caught at their widest part. The whole carriage jumped and jostled as he tried to jerk free.  
  
“You are…hardly…helping,” Elian gritted out. His face was flushed flame red, and for a moment he was truly mortified, a bit of that old Elian creeping back. This was fun to talk about, to tease about, but actually being so fat he couldn’t even fit through the carriage door…  
  
All of him was squeezed and pouring out of the small space—both in front of him and behind—the grip of the doorframe incredibly tight. He tried to jerk free again, hands in a death grip on the poor footman’s (who had a bit of a pudgy middle himself; everyone who stayed near Alex too long got a bit softer than intended) as he rocked and struggled and cursed.  
  
And then Elian stilled again, breathless, and let himself just relax back. Some of that embarrassment lingered, but it was fading again as he looked down and got a good look at himself, half-poured through the door, belly-first. He gave a throaty laugh. “Daniel, I truly think I am too fat for this door. And you want to make me even _fatter_? How will you ever get me home?”  
  
  
Elian's pained tone gave Daniel pause instantly. Had he gone too far? Was his lover actually upset, in pain? He stepped up against Elian's rump, examining the swell of fat either side of the doorframe. He was well stuck in the door. Underneath his delicate gown he would have angry red lines in his pale hips from the struggle.   
  
"Poor darling," he whispered gently, rubbing close to where his hips connected with the frame. He glanced at the footman, "Will you please pull his hands when I say so?"  
  
He pressed his palms either side of the young lord's hips, speaking softly in his ear, "We will simply have to stay with Alex and Arthur while we have someone make this door wider. That is a plan for later though. For now though, if I help squeeze you through..."   
  
As much as he _could_ help while his every nerve ending was on fire.   
  
  
The footman instantly leapt into motion, a second coming to help, taking Elian’s other hand. Elian, for his part, did his best to hold his breath and suck in…though of course, large as he was, there was no appreciable difference when he did that.  
  
Otherwise, he was completely helpless as Daniel gave the word and pushed from behind, the footmen pulling from in front.  
  
There was a great jostle and creak of wood, then an audible tearing as finally Elian was wedged free. He gave a yelp as he suddenly popped out of the doorway and stumbled forward; only his own innate grace (present in spades despite his bulk) and the strength of the waiting footmen (who were more than used to hauling around Arthur after one of his staggering meals) kept him from ending up sprawled across the ground.  
  
There was a huge rip in the side of his dress, however, a flutter of fabric left behind.  
  
  
Daniel heard the tear, but didn't give any indication to stop. He had not anticipated such a large rip in the fabric, exposing a portion of Elian's hip.  
  
Mortified, Daniel hurried to remove his coat to offer him, holding it over the rip when he realised there was no hope of his coat fitting over his lover.   
  
"I'm sorry, my sweet," he whispered, looking from Elian to the fabric. "Perhaps Arthur has something appropriate you could wear to cover the damage...?"   
  
  
Elian just waved it off, too relieved to be free—and too amused at what had happened, good nature winning out over the flash of embarrassment that had nearly taken him—to mind. “I brought more than enough clothes to last me,” he said. Then he touched Daniel’s arm, expression softening. “But you are sweet to worry so.”  
  
He nodded to the footmen, who at once began (with the driver’s help) unloading their luggage. Elian handed Daniel’s coat back to him; truthfully, the men of Willowby had seen far more of him, and would see yet even _more_ before this raucous party was through.  
  
“Come, darling,” he said, offering Daniel his arm. “Let’s go pay our respects to our hosts, then retire to our assigned room so I might change into something at least _deliberately_ revealing.” He gave a quirking smile; the blush was beginning to fade and his breath was returning to normal. “Tell me you at least got some enjoyment out of that little mishap. Did you have any fun at all seeing what all your care had done to me?”  
  
  
While Elian's pretty blush was fading, Daniel was only growing redder as he laced their arms together, inclining his head out of habit.   
  
"Yes, awfully so," he admitted under his breath, "I could have happily remained trapped in the carriage, behind your magnificent arse, until the end of time. I just don't like for you to be embarrassed. Are you alright?" He stroked Elian's doughy arm with his other hand as he spoke.   
  
  
Elian’s smile was warm and genuine. “I am all right. Amused, now, and honestly a little titillated. Ever since we bought new furniture, the threat of getting stuck anywhere has all but left my mind. In retrospect, it would have been fun if we hadn’t had a crowd.”  
  
He winked, saucy. “Maybe we should keep the carriage doors as they are and attempt to re-create the experience. We shall just endeavor to make sure we are alone when we stuff me back on board. Mmm, and speaking of stuffing and fat, lazy things,” Elian added with a laugh as the main doors were thrown open for them. Sitting at the far end of the entrance hall on a beautiful and sturdy chaise—tables full of sweets surrounding him and his quiet shadow at his side—was a man who still managed to eclipse even Elian in size. He was leaning back, seemingly all belly from this angle: a round, _round_ mass of a man, with cherubic cheeks and curling blond hair.  
  
Arthur had been very, very big the last they had seen him, but he was truly impressive now. Alex, it seemed, had not been idle in these last six or so months (Alex and Arthur needing to stay at their estate to focus on reaching Arthur’s goal, and Daniel and Elian likewise tied to London; unlike the members of Willowby who had already finished the wager and could freely go visit whenever they wished, they had much riding on this year and didn’t dare lose time on travel).  
  
“Oh goodness,” Elian whispered; they were far enough away still that voices wouldn’t carry. “He’s absolutely _mammoth_. Are you sure you want to plump me up to _that_?”  
  
  
Daniel chuckled, squeezing Elian's soft arm as they approached, "I hope I am strong enough to squeeze you in on my own, my sweet."  
  
He followed Elian's gaze when he spoke, his eyes landing on the source of the light jest. Daniel did not know Alex and Arthur terribly well, given how shy he often felt of his manner of speaking which, try as he might, sometimes spotlighted him as not being of the same social standing as his lover and his companions. He did, however, remember Arthur's size last time, which had been staggering _then_. Now, though...  
  
"Good God," he mumbled before he could stop himself. He loved to imagine Elian bigger, but his imagination did not prepare him for the sight massive young man at the far end of the hall. _Could_ Elian even grow that big? Colour deepened in Daniel's cheeks as he tried to picture it.  
  
Years down the line, of course. Elian, laid back on a gigantic bed, gloriously naked and beautiful, a mountain of flesh, with his flame red hair grown longer, fanning over pale shoulders and tumbling to brush at enormous breasts. He was fascinated by the thought, to say he wasn't would be a lie.  
  
"It... Could be discussed," Daniel offered breathily, letting the back of his hand brush one of the folds at Elian's side. "Though I dare say I would need to learn how to bloat you up _that_ much from watching Alex."  
  
  
Elian let his hip bump Daniel. “And I would need to learn a thing or two about absolute gluttony from Arthur,” he teased. But by then they were almost to within hearing range, so Elian quieted, a warm smile spreading across his face. He let go of Daniel’s arm to hurry to greet his old friend.  
  
“Darling Arthur, it’s so good to see you!” he said, swooping in. Aware of the eyes of their admiring lovers on them, Elian made a pretty show of leaning over the corpulent lord for a soft kiss. Their bellies met first, Elian’s tumbling down to press warm and plush against Arthur’s; they squished together, pillowy fat against pillowy fat, so big it took actual effort to bring their faces together.  
  
Elian reached out a blind hand to Alex, knowing the treat would be dropped there immediately. It was tradition to feed and caress the mascot of Willowby Court upon seeing him, and Elian grinned against Arthur’s mouth as he grasped at the place where their bellies pushed together, fondling the cascading curves. “Just look at us,” he purred as he pulled away from the sweet kiss, popping the macaroon into Arthur’s mouth and getting two big handfuls of that enormous gut. “Just look at _you_. Goodness, I haven’t felt small or delicate in ages. However did you get so fat, dear Arthur?” His eyes were bright and teasing, fingers massaging gently before he stepped away—gesturing for Daniel to take his turn greeting their hosts.  
  
  
Elian must have known what he was doing to Daniel, leaning over Arthur and purposely mashing their soft bellies together in such a delicious way.  
  
Arthur, blissfully unaware and delighted to see Elian, reached his hands up to tenderly stroke the red locks that tickled his cheek.   
  
"Elian, you are a vision," he gushed, bringing a pudgy hand up to cover his mouth as he chewed on the macaroon, savouring the sugar and texture with a hum, growing red as he was fondled. "Goodness, I know, I'm enormous. I am very, very well taken care of," he said, glancing adoringly at Alex, "I want for nothing, thanks to my dear Alex."  
  
Daniel took a timid step forward and smiled warmly at Alex before leaning down to kiss Arthur on the cheek, chaste and sweet even as he spread both hands over the blonde man's gigantic belly, squeezing and stroking before turning his attention to the sweets, making a little show of finding the largest offering and pushing it into Arthur's waiting mouth.   
  
  
Elian watched as his lover—who had been on the outside of this for so long—participated in Willowby’s best tradition. Fondling Arthur like this was a delight the rest of them took for granted; it was even more fun seeing it all brand new again though Daniel’s eyes.  
  
“We both seem to be well-cared-for,” he teased. “I swear that Daniel is sometimes like a man possessed, trying to make my poor body just as round as he can.” He gave his own belly a playfully forlorn squeeze. “He’s threatened to make me just as fat as you, but seeing you…darling, I can’t even imagine. How strong dear Alex must be to heft you around here and there.”  
  
He winked at Alex, who inclined his head with a small, private smile. Alex, too, was clearly enjoying the combination of his own lover with someone so gloriously soft.  
  
  
"I think you would look breathtaking. Like a work of art, more so than you already are," Arthur sighed, very obviously looking over Elian's curves with appreciation. He gave Daniel a playful glance while still addressing the poet, "But I am certain that your handsome lover would be able to get stronger for you. He would owe you that much if he wishes to fatten you up to this level." He gave his own belly a good, firm pat, setting his body quivering.   
  
  
Alex set a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, squeezing gently. His eyes were very warm.  
  
Elian, for his part, blushed prettily and tossed his hair. “For that, I will wear my slinkiest gown tonight, just so you can see even more of me,” he teased. “And I would be _delighted_ to see more of all this gorgeous flesh. I wonder,” he added, pretending not to notice just how interested their encourager lovers were, “whether we could both fit into your bed. Do you think it even possible? Bare bellies squished together, softly pressed just as tight as we can manage…lazing about indolently while handsome men fondle us and feed us delicious things?”  
  
He winked.  
  
  
Arthur's eyes were sparkling as Elian spoke. Every additional word was bringing more and more heat to his face. He glanced up at Alex, almost as though he was about to beg for permission for that to happen, before turning to see how Daniel was reacting. He needed to bite back a giggle as he saw how visibly flustered the dark haired man was.  
  
"My dear Elian, I fear we wouldn't fit together, but I would _delight_ in the attempt," he said lowly. "Preferably if we are both full and tipsy. Imagine the spectacle we would make with all of this soft fat between us." He was most certainly joining in the teasing of their respective partners, a wicked glint in his eye.  
  
  
Alex cleared his throat, voice husky. “We can certainly arrange for that to happen,” he promised. “I think the bed may _just_ be big enough if you are not too swollen with food.”  
  
Elian laughed, leaning in again to press a warm kiss to Arthur’s cheek, deliberately arching to rub their bellies together. Arthur’s may have eclipsed his, but they were both so softly fat, so round in shape, that it was impossible not to see them and imagine how perfectly their flesh would meld. “It sounds like a challenge to me,” he said. “Tip us into bed nice and full and giggling with wine, and then proceed to stuff us so huge we start to spread out and push apart, our bellies growing like rising bread until we no longer both fit.”  
  
  
To Arthur's side, Daniel was scarlet, shifting awkwardly as he listened.  
  
"Between Alex and I, I am sure we can make sure you are tended to expertly," he murmured, partly embarrassed, but mostly titillated. The thought of Elian tumbling into bed (and likely onto Arthur) all a titter, as he sometimes got, was a wonderful enough image, but when added to that the sheer decadence of feeding them both, pandering to their lazy demands, it sounded like a dream come true that Daniel had not even known he desired.   
  
  
Elian pulled back with a very warm look for his lover just as the clatter of another carriage drifted from outside. “Then it’s a plan. If not tonight—goodness knows if any of us will be sober enough to even move after tonight’s festivities—then certainly before this visit is through. Now, I appear to be in need of a wardrobe change,” he fluttered his hand down toward the tear in his dress, revealing one dimpled thigh, “and you must greet your guests. We’ll see you both later.”  
  
With a blown kiss to both their hosts, Elian reached for Daniel’s hand and the two of them swept away, a footman appearing seemingly out of nowhere to escort them to their room so they could prepare themselves for the thrilling evening ahead.


	8. Arthur & Various: Past

**1812 (a couple of weeks after the wager)**  
**Willowby Court**  
**Arthur & Willowby Court members**  
  
  
**Arthur’s early attempts at gaining**  
  
There were some fairly significant changes about Willowby Court after the night of the Prince Regent’s wager.  
  
For one, more staff was immediately hired. With every member of the club needing to gain at least a little weight—and many of them needing to gain significant numbers—more cooks and footmen were necessary to keep up with the increased demand on the kitchen. There were constant orders of fresh groceries arriving, and constant dishes being served no matter the hour.  
  
It had been decided that it would be easier to treat eating as a grazing event instead of hosting formal dining hours, so the table was always set and drinks were always flowing, no matter the hour day or night. Gentlemen wandered in and out as needed, either eating enough to satisfy their hunger or (as was the case for those with 100 pounds or more to gain) stuffing themselves to the point of pain before finding a spare bedroom and collapsing to sleep it off.  
  
In the first few weeks of this madness, it was easy to get overwhelmed.  
  
“How are we expected to live like this?” Payton wondered, looking around at the dining table with a lost expression. He was tall and incredibly slim, with blond hair cut in a fashionable style. He tended toward order, preferring things to run on schedule and without a great deal of fuss. This—the few gentlemen sitting about the dining table stuffing themselves at a thoroughly strange time of night—was _not_ orderly.  
  
But he needed to at least show his support, even if he couldn’t imagine taking a bite of his own until the proper time for breakfast, so he sighed and moved to one of the empty seats, smiling in greeting to the man immediately on his left. “Arthur, hello. I wasn’t expecting you here so late.”  
  
  
Arthur had drawn a staggering number in the wake of the ill-advised comment from the younger lord, almost inconceivable in relation to his already soft frame. For years, since school, in fact, he had maintained his figure as he was expected, completely and utterly miserable without his best friend to make it easier. With careful diet, the very rare indulgence, and regular exercise (gentle to others, torturous to him), he had managed to teeter between pleasantly plump and just slightly pudgy, though always with a sweet, round face.  
  
He had absolutely no intention of backing out, _that_ was more unthinkable, but it had taken him this long to think that, with the sheer amount of weight he needed to pile on, he ought to make a start.  
  
He had been eating steadily for the last hour, and his stomach was beginning to ache terribly, a combination of how stuffed he already was and the cramp of emotions when he reached for a fine china plate of biscuits. Shortbread always made him think of Alex, of their sneaky trips to the larder in school, and specifically of the night he last saw his best friend. The buttery, sweet taste had only added to the deliciousness of his very first kiss. He'd thought Alex would be given a stern talking to, or even a good hiding, as his mother would say, and be sent back to his lessons the next day with strict instructions that they remain away from one another, but Alex had never returned, never written. Arthur's parents never mentioned him, and would discourage him from asking after him.  
  
All of it came flooding back when he idly bit into a biscuit, without thinking about what he was even picking up.  
  
Payton almost snapped him from a daze when he spoke, voice refined and pleasant. Arthur blinked, but quickly recovered and smiled, dabbing at the crumbs around his mouth before speaking.  
  
"Ah, I have not yet gotten started on my goal. I trust you're not here to eat?" he said with light affection. A lot of the Willowby boys were shameless flirts, honeyed words, and curious hands went where they might, and Payton was rather fetching in his own way. The manner in which the men interacted had blindsided Arthur during his first attendance, given how much it contrasted with his experiences.   
  
  
Payton was a little more awkward than most of the others with flirtations—and he was certainly no good with honeyed words—but Arthur had always put him at ease. Still he frowned in worry at Arthur’s admission instead of smiling back.  
  
“You’re only now starting?” he asked. “Arthur, was it wise to lose even a day? Considering your number…”  
  
Even if Arthur stuffed himself silly every single day for two years, his number was almost an impossible dream. If he didn’t have the discipline to _overcommit_, he would lose before he even began.  
  
“I don’t mean to pry, but you won’t manage if you don’t dedicate yourself more fully. Or do you think, like some do, that Prinny will change his mind and release us after we have learned our lesson?”  
  
  
Arthur sighed, gently touching Payton's hand to reassure him his advice was appreciated, "No, it was terribly unwise to let it take this long to begin. I have a lot of time to catch up with, but I tend to gain so freely that I am hoping that will be in my favour."   
  
He gave the curve of his rounded belly, pushing up against his trousers and starting to test the buttons from the amount he had already eaten, a little pat. The action sent an unexpected thrill through him that was so intense he needed a second to remember where he was.  
  
"Remind me, you have a year for your gain, don't you?" he asked, taking a large gulp of wine and eyeing the spread (that thrill having made him want to eat more).   
  
  
Payton blew out his cheeks on a breath, still worried for his friend. Even with a lower metabolism (which of course he had noticed about Arthur but had never really considered much one way or the other), 200 pounds in two years would have been a daunting task. Considering Arthur had _more than that_ ridiculously high number… Considering Arthur had by far the furthest to go…  
  
No, he didn’t see how it would be possible at all. Should he say as much to Arthur? Should he encourage him not to try? He could only imagine how terrible it would be to gain massive amounts of weight and still fail—if that failure was all but inevitable, why even try?  
  
He subtly shook away the doubts swarming in his head.  
  
“One year, yes,” Payton said, refocusing. “But I have a paltry sum, so I don’t plan on beginning in earnest until we’re nearer the end.” No point gaining his 10 pounds only to struggle to keep it all year long. “Instead I will endeavor to help my friends with a more difficult burden. Is there anything I can do for you, Arthur?”  
  
  
Arthur nipped at his lower lip, shaking his head. Payton was a sweetheart, but he was dreadfully easy to read. He leaned closer, letting their shoulders touch slightly in lieu of an embrace, and sighed quietly.  
  
"Yes," he said, "You could pass me the cheeseboard, please."   
  
  
That, he could do.  
  
In fact, he could do Arthur even better.  
  
Trying his best to be a good, supportive friend, Payton rose and moved around the table, gathering the requested cheeseboard, but also a refill on Arthur’s drink and a plate of likely-looking iced cakes. Last he snagged another clean plate and filled it with a few bits of this or that—ham glistening with brown sugar rub, greens soaked in butter, a tart jelly to cut all the fat and sweetness.  
  
“Here,” he said, setting everything before Arthur. “I’ll admit, I am perhaps not the best person here to help you, but… I can give incentives that may help? For every thing you finish, I will tell you a bit of gossip from the _ton_.”  
  
That was a rare offer. Payton was in a position—as the son of one of the great matriarchs of Almacks—to know everything about everyone, but he was notoriously tight-lipped. A promise of gossip was like him throwing open the coffers and handing out free bars of gold. He wouldn’t have done it for many people, but Arthur… Arthur had always been special, hadn’t he?  
  
  
When he watched Payton collect the cheeseboard, Arthur had thanked him sweetly, but _then _he had gathered up all manner of additional things that he hadn't asked for, raising a warm smile from Arthur.  
  
And an odd flutter, low in his already full belly, that caused him to rub it a bit more firmly. Being presented with such a spread, meant for him, made him feel warm, and not simply because it looked delicious.  
  
He turned to Payton, focusing on his fine features to distract from the strange fascination rising in him. His bright blue eyes wide and his voice low, he leaned closer to whisper, "You would do that? Payton, I would _love_ to hear any jewels of gossip from you."  
  
  
“I would do that for you,” he agreed, leaning closer and whispering as well—grey eyes dancing. Even though he had more than enough discipline to spare, he’d learned from caring for his far more fanciful brother long ago that incentives made difficult tasks much easier. “But first, you must finish something.”  
  
He gestured to the waiting options, brows arched.  
  
  
Arthur whimpered. He wanted the gossip, but he was already so swollen...  
  
He reached for the iced cakes, then being the easiest thing to eat, and helpfully moreish, and stuffed one into his mouth, looking pleadingly at Payton. _I'm doing it, see? Please tell me._  
  
  
Payton patiently waited as Arthur chewed, smile encouraging. Then, as he swallowed, he said, “Everyone knows that the Lord Alleydale retired to the Orkneys for the season. What they do not know is that Alleydale’s wife forced him to go…after she discovered that he was dallying with her own lover, Lady Margaret.”  
  
His grey gaze flicked to the next item of food, then up to Arthur again.  
  
  
"Goodness!" Arthur breathed, picking up another cake and eating a little more eagerly, thoroughly distracted by delicious scandal. He was the sort to pretend he was above gossip but, most tellingly, never did deter the spread of it. "But what of Lady Margaret in all of this?"  
  
He dabbed at the smears of sugar on his lips, making short work of his cake, but huffed afterwards, patting his belly gently as he reached for his full wine glass, hoping to ease the increasing ache.   
  
  
“Lady Margaret is… Here,” Payton interrupted himself. He lifted a single, questioning brow. “Do you mind if I touch you? I know something that may help.”  
  
He’d been more or less in charge of raising his own siblings—their parents being too disinterest in children to actually bother remembering they had any—and young Charlie used to have a bad habit of binging his feelings. Payton had spent many nights trying to soothe his little brother’s pain until Charlie had finally outgrown the habit of gorging himself sick.  
  
Ironic, he thought, considering Charlie had since been caught up in the wager as well. It seemed his brother was going to have to relearn old, bad habits.  
  
He waited until Arthur gave a nod of assent, then reached down and pulled at his chair, scraping it across the floor until Arthur was half-facing him. “Keep going,” he said, even as he reached out to press his hands firm but kind against Arthur’s swollen belly, carefully digging his palms into the exact right spot. It’d be even better with a warm compress, but for now, this would do. “Lady Margaret is also dallying with a young footman of their household,” he explained, rubbing Arthur’s distended little belly, “and so chose to remain behind.”  
  
  
Of course Arthur didn't mind. He had always enjoyed attention of any nature, but the moment Payton's elegant hands were on him, he flushed bright red. The feeling was too similar, too nostalgic.   
  
He had tried more than once to replicate that wonderful feeling of someone cupping his soft middle, squeezing appreciatively, but what few awkward, short-lived relationships he'd had, the one that had actually indulged him when he'd asked her to touch his stomach, close after leaving school, had done nothing for him. He'd had more of a reaction within when he grasped the flesh himself, testing the weight of it.  
  
Payton's expert massaging was better, but it still wasn't _Alex_. Those hands, though long and slender, didn't feel like Alex's. The touch held no heat, even with a lot of care and affection.  
  
"Oh-... That is helping," he sighed, leaning back, unable to help the slight whimper as he brought another cake to his lips, the last on the plate. "I can't believe Lady Margaret would be so very... Open."   
  
  
It’s true that there was no heat. While Payton was very fond of Arthur, he was in love with someone else. He had been for as long as he could remember. And despite the fact that he could never _be_ with the person he loved, well… He found that he couldn’t bring himself to be interested in anything beyond fond friendship—even if Arthur was truly the sweetest young man he’d ever met.  
  
“Lady Margaret is far more relaxed in her worldview than she would have people believe,” Payton explained as he gently, carefully, dug his thumbs into Arthur’s packed middle. “It’s the case with many of us, though, is it not? Just look at the relaxed atmosphere here, where anything goes. In public, we wear our most dour and prudish faces. In private, amongst those like ourselves, we are a little more…honest.”  
  
He flicked his gaze back to the plates. There was just the cheese and a bit of meat. “Finish your wine,” Payton said. “All in one gulp. Then finish the cheese. By then, you will feel the pain less.”  
  
  
Arthur nodded, content in being instructed. More than content, really. He reached for his wine and managed to, somehow, elegantly quaff it down in a single gulp, stifling a small hiccup. He had something of a weak constitution for wine, and was already pleasantly warm and relaxed, or would be as soon as the pain in his belly eased.  
  
He reached for the cheese and nibbled lightly, an attempt to slow his pace that did not last when he tasted how strong and sharp it was; he still struggled to deny food, even when aching.   
  
"I would never have known, but you are right, of course," he mused. "I think it is nice to hear of those more relaxed views, it's just a shame that there was hurt caused."   
  
  
Payton’s expression relaxed, warmed. “You have a kind heart, Arthur,” he said. “It’s why everyone here cares so much about you. In fact, I don’t think there’s a single member of Willowby who wouldn’t fight for you.”  
  
He knew for a fact that his brash younger brother carried a torch for Arthur…though he had a feeling that it would never happen for Charlie. The two were too poorly matched.  
  
He paused in his massage only long enough to lean over and snag the wine carafe, pouring Arthur half a glass. Not only would the alcohol make things easier for him (drunkenness caused quite a few follies, but it also covered a multitude of sins), but the excess bloat might help toward his goal. “Finish the cheese and drink that. I’ll make sure you make it safely to a room to sleep it all off.”  
  
  
"You are such a wonderful friend," Arthur gushed, watching as his glass was filled. He was very much enjoying the pampering, Payton taking care of him while talking with him in his sweet, soothing manner.  
  
He dared lean forward, to a creak of fabric against fastenings, and give the slender man a chaste kiss on the cheek.  
  
"Will you tell me more?" he asked hopefully, as he took his glass again.   
  
  
Payton smiled, studying Arthur’s face. He already looked more relaxed and less uncomfortable, the wine clearly catching up with him. His cheeks were flushed and eyes glassy. Soon enough, his head would be swimming.  
  
He gave Arthur’s stuffed belly a gentle pat. “Of course. Finish up, and I’ll tell you all about the ambassador from Italy and the ambassador from France and how their death feud may be covering up another illicit secret…”  
  
And so he talked, soothingly and gently, and massaged away the pain as Arthur ate and drank until he was beyond stuffed: on the first steps to becoming as fat as he could, despite almost everyone at Willowby doubting it could even be done.


	9. Arthur & Various: Past

**1812 (even more weeks after the wager)**  
  
Things were going well for Arthur. Sort of.  
  
On the one hand, he was gaining weight—and fairly easily—his body plumpening up at a steady rate. On the other hand, there was such a long way to go and he was already behind. It was strange, both getting fat after his family had harped on him his whole life about his weight, but also not being fat enough.  
  
What wasn’t strange, perhaps, was the way people were responding to him.  
  
He’d always been a favorite at Willowby. Everyone liked him, and he had more than his fair share of admirers. But after he had drawn the highest number at the wager, even _more_ attention was being showered on him, people coming out of the woodwork to help him any way they could—including, it turned out, Payton’s younger brother, Charlie.  
  
“Look at you,” Charlie tsked now, catching sight of Arthur in the hall. He stopped Arthur with a hand to his hip, eyeing him with cheerful critique. “You look like sausage stuffed in that thing. Congratulations: you’re _finally_ growing out of those suits. Welcome to the club, my friend.”  
  
He snickered and patted his own gut. Charlie had always been on the heftier side, already quite chubby when the wager was struck—round and short where Payton was slim and tall. Now, his own clothing was impossibly tight, gaping crescents visible between obviously straining buttons.  
  
With Arthur’s gain over the last several weeks, he was in a similar state: nothing he owned seemed to _fit_ anymore.  
  
“Take it from an expert: if you sit down too fast when your waistcoat is straining like that, you’re sure to lose a button or five.”  
  
  
Arthur chewed his lip, awkwardly adjusting his waistcoat where it was straining horribly. The weight he had gained thus far had gone straight to his belly, with his upper arms, chest, and lower body only just waking up to the fact that they ought to take some of the strain.  
  
He smoothed his hands over the dome of it, slowed by the peaks and dips in his waistcoat that were caused by the taxed fabric. Charlie's playful tutting over him made heat blossom in his chest and he offered a sheepish smile.   
  
"My other suits have yet to return from the tailor," he admitted. The poor tailor had received almost Arthur's entire wardrobe, and was working hard to alter everything for him, but given how quickly he was fattening up, it would be difficult to avoid snug clothes.  
  
"What should I do? If I sit slowly and carefully, I should be fine. Shouldn't I?" he murmured, still rubbing his palms over his gut, unintentionally comparing his size to Charlie's.   
  
  
Charlie was bigger than Arthur, but built similarly—belly-forward, thanks to his deep love of wine and other intoxicants. He dropped his hands to his own, larger, gut and gave it a playful pat. He’d been borderline-fat all his life and had no shame in it. “Not if you plan to eat the way you’ve been,” he teased. “You’re not going to last the evening in that thing. But I could see my way to helping you out if you’ll agree to come out drinking with me.”  
  
His crush on Arthur was widely known throughout Willowby. Unlike his brother, Charlie wasn’t exactly the _subtle_ sort.  
  
  
Despite have heard whisperings of Charlie's affections, Arthur hadn't taken it too seriously. He had, however, during some late evenings, when his skin was flushed from too much wine, openly flirted with Charlie, teasing little touches on his arm, flashing him bright smiles.  
  
"Well, I would enjoy your company anyway, but if you can help me at least keep some dignity, I would truly appreciate it," he said, stepping closer, a warm smile on his face.   
  
  
“Arthur, I’m going to tell you a little secret,” Charlie said, wrapping an arm around Arthur’s shoulders and leading him down the hall, toward the exit. “If you are truly having fun, there’s no such thing as dignity.”  
  
Bumping their hips lightly together, he led Arthur out of the club and into one of the waiting coaches. It settled into its springs at their combined weight, both waistcoats visibly straining once they were seated.  
  
Charlie smiled at Arthur. “We’re going to a tavern I know,” he said, leaning back and absentmindedly stroking his fingers over the curve of his paunch. “We’re going to have too much to drink and play a few too many games of dice. And _then_ I’ll bring you back to my townhouse and give you a few of my old clothes. You’re getting just fat enough that you’ll fit right into them in no time.” He chuckled. “How’s it feel to be growing into my clothes?”  
  
  
Sitting in the carriage was a little worrying. Arthur was all too aware of his waistcoat complaining as his tummy pushed forward, the buttons of his shirt beneath it were in no better shape either.  
  
The plan sounded an enjoyable one, and one Arthur was happy to be a part of, but he blushed darkly at the question posed to him. Charlie had been something of an inspiration in how shamelessly he carried himself, no matter his size. He was the first example Arthur had come across of someone who might actually enjoy their thicker frame, suggesting it just _might_ be alright to like being bigger.  
  
"I... I suppose I didn't imagine it would happen so very quickly," he said with a light giggle. "I should have known, given how I could simply look at a tray of teacakes, and plump right up."   
  
  
“There are certain people,” Charlie mused, “who seem to have just been made to be fat. Looking at my brother, you wouldn’t think it’s possible that it runs in our family, but it does. Whenever Mother turned her attention away from her work at Almacks to notice us, she would scold me. _You’re getting too plump, Charles; you’ll disgrace the family._”  
  
He offered a wide, toothy grin. “Well, it looks like my tendency to disgrace the family has turned into a chance to save it, belly first. And you,” he added, nodding to Arthur’s belly where it was straining hardest. “You’ve got the biggest honor of all of Willowby. Are you really going to go through with getting _that_ big? Have you thought through what life is going to be like?”  
  
  
It was incredibly reassuring to hear Charlie had suffered the same sort of treatment. He wanted to say something, the same way his best friend had always said the right thing when Arthur was shamed for his weight.   
  
"You are fine," he said softly, smiling. "I have always thought you carry your weight in a rather refined way. As for the wager-" He sighed and glanced out of the window, "I haven't a choice, really. But, I hadn't actually thought about the practicality yet, no..."  
  
It was just like him to do without thought. Everything always worked out, that was Arthur's thinking. He supposed he would need a manservant, someone strong to help haul him in and out of bed or bath when he grew to a mountain of blubber.   
  
  
He flushed with pleasure at the compliment. “You’ll likely need to change your residence,” Charlie said. “And hire someone who can help you more intimately. Of course you’ll need a new carriage, too, especially designed for you. Here, imagine.”  
  
Charlie reached forward to rest a warm hand on Arthur’s belly, giving a faint squeeze. “You’re, what, thirty pounds up over your normal weight? Now imagine that at fifty.” He pulled his hand back, roughly measuring where his belly might sit. “Now imagine one hundred.” Much farther back—a true big belly. “One-fifty.” His hands shaped an imaginary gut, almost as if he were hoisting it up, holding all that wobbly flesh. “Two hundred.” Further back still, looking absolutely massive to Arthur. “Two-fifty. Three hundred.”  
  
He just kept going, spreading his hands further and further as imaginary Arthur gained more and more, until his huge belly practically seemed to fill the whole carriage. Charlie’s brows arched. “This is what you’re dealing with, Arthur.”  
  
  
He should have been terrified.  
  
Arthur knew he should be panicking, disgusted, mortified that he would be a mammoth mound of quivering flesh, and he _was_ nervous, but only at the prospect of finding someone understanding enough to assist in helping someone so impossibly obese accomplish simple tasks. But part of him, the same part that had to bite back a loud whine as his soft belly was squeezed, _wanted_ it. He had held back for so many years, denying himself every delicious thing he wanted, why not dive headfirst into excess and sin, swell up to beyond ridiculous proportions?   
  
With the Prince's favour, he could hire scores of gorgeous men to care for him. But without, he would be left too fat to easily fend for himself.   
  
"Goodness, it's a daunting prospect," he whispered, finally.   
  
  
“I don’t envy you the task,” Charlie admitted, letting his hands drop to his own beer gut. He gave it a fond pat. “Given, I’ll be plenty fat too, but there’s a certain line you cross—or so I hear—beyond which your life simply isn’t the same. _You_ aren’t the same.”  
  
He tilted his head, watching Arthur carefully. “But you know we’re all here to help and support you, don’t you? All of us at Willowby.”  
  
Charlie hesitated, then leaned forward, inching toward the edge of the seat so his intent was a little more clear. “I will support you, Arthur.”  
  
  
The fairhaired young man nodded, letting out a soft breath he had been holding unintentionally. The carriage felt entirely too warm in that moment, whether from the image of his own body, a pale, wobbling expanse before him, the discussion, Charlie's low tone, or the way in which he regularly patted his own impressive gut. He almost wanted to touch Charlie's belly, to try and imagine being that bit bigger.   
  
"Thank you," he said gently, "I fear I will need all of the help I can get.”  
  
  
“Then I’d be honored to help you,” Charlie said. Then he laughed. “I almost said we fat kids must stick together, but considering Prinny’s wager, we won’t be the only fat lords at Willowby soon. Won’t that be marvelous? To see all those turned up noses get bent out of shape. This won’t be the only round belly we see soon.”  
  
He clapped a hand to the side of his hard-packed gut again, the gesture shaking it—just enough, it turned out, for one of those straining buttons to pop. It snapped off the fine material of his waistcoat and clattered across the floor between them; a deeper half-moon of straining white shirt was visible in the gap, the rest of the buttons seeming to be holding on by barely a thread.  
  
Charlie looked down, cheeks flushing darkly—but then he laughed. “Good _God_, I knew I was at the end of the line with this thing,” he muttered, even as a second button lost its struggle, the swell of his flesh pushing out subtly in the gaping opening left..  
  
  
Arthur's laughter at the idea of once proud lords blown up to the proportions they scoffed about previously died very quickly as Charlie's poor waistcoat finally gave up the ghost. Having remembered it occurring more than once at school, he knew the embarrassment all too well, and hurried to assist, his own taxed waistcoat creaking dangerously as he put a hand over the exposed flesh as though to help in hiding it (from whom, he didn't know) while he tried to lean down to retrieve the button without letting the same fate befall his own.   
  
"Perhaps we should go to your estate first, Charlie. Or we will be exposed in your favourite tavern," he giggled weakly, the warmth of flesh beneath his palm making his heart beat faster.   
  
  
“By God, you’re probably right,” he said with a weak laugh. Charlie stared down at where Arthur’s hand covered the gaping crescent where his waistcoat had betrayed him. “I should be used to this, and I know I must grow more used to it still but I tell you: right now I feel _incredibly_ fat already.”  
  
Charlie sighed and rapped against the roof of the cab, calling out the change in direction.  
  
  
Arthur's expression softened, and his treacherous hand started rubbing Charlie's round stomach, the way he was beginning to think he might enjoy himself.  
  
"What number did you pull, again?" he asked sympathetically.   
  
  
Charlie’s eyes went heavy-lidded with pleasure at the touch. “150,” he said. “150 pounds, on top of all this blubber.”  
  
His belly really was remarkably round—almost spherical.  
  
  
It _was_ a lot, and Charlie was already a big man. Arthur could sympathise a great deal. He patted his firm belly lightly, nodding.  
  
"You will be fine. You have measures in place already, don't you? It seems you have thought it through, much more than I have," he said with a gentle smile.  
  
  
“I’ve got measures in place,” Charlie agreed easily. Then he laughed. “It involves a lot of drinking, then gorging on hangover food. That’s always been what’s kept me fat. Now, it’s going to be what gets me fat enough to make it through this.”  
  
He gave himself a solid smack, smile lopsided. But then his expression gentled again, going worried. “You need to figure this all out, Arthur,” Charlie cautioned. “I know the two of us aren’t… Being honest here?” He hesitated. “I’ve been attracted to you for a long time, but I know that you and I will never go anywhere beyond flirtation, maybe a fling. Maybe this.” He gestured down to where Arthur was still cupping his gut. “I’m not what you need. But you need someone. Someone to _help you_.”  
  
  
Arthur looked down at where his hand was still resting against Charlie's stomach, unable to look him in the eye. It was true, of course, Charlie certainly wasn't weak minded enough to believe Arthur's flirtation would go anywhere.  
  
"I-... I know. I suppose I am relying a bit too heavily my friends in the Court, and their kindness, their willingness to help me," he said. He leaned close to kiss Charlie on the cheek, "I'm sorry if I have ever treated you with anything less than that same kindness... But you are right."  
  
  
Charlie reached up to cup Arthur’s soft cheek. “You could never be anything but kind,” he said. “I knew what I was getting into when I began to develop feelings for you. You’ve always been generous with your affection, but there’s a sense as if you’re…waiting for someone. Am I wrong? You don’t have to tell me the details,” he added quickly. “It’s enough to know for sure that there’s really no chance with you beyond the superficial.”  
  
  
And that was enough to bring a lump to Arthur's throat, and he nodded.  
  
"I don't want to continue to wait," he admitted. "I have tried a couple of times to move on, and allow someone else in. But no matter what I do, I cannot bring myself to open my heart to another."  
  
Nor could he bring himself to talk about the _who_. The only one he had ever imagined in his future, and he hadn't even seen him in... _Ten years. _  
  
  
Charlie sighed in empathy, brushing his thumb across Arthur’s soft, round cheek. “I’m so sorry,” he said, meaning it. Even though he desperately wanted Arthur for himself, he had known from almost the beginning that it would never happen—and he truly did want Arthur to be happy. “I hope someday this special person finds their way back to you.”  
  
The carriage rocked as it came to a stop outside Charlie’s townhouse. He looked up, then sighed again, dropping his hand. “In the meantime,” he said, trying to lighten the mood, “let’s get both of us some clothes that won’t come popping off our fat bellies, hmm?”  
  
  
Though he felt raw, exposed, having never opened up about still holding a torch for Alex, even without the use of his name, Arthur chuckled at Charlie's suggestion, nodding and standing to help him up.  
  
"Let's. I am _most_ enthusiastic getting that drink with you," he said warmly, squeezing the other man's hand.


	10. Arthur & Various: Past

**1812 (yet more weeks later)**  
  
It was late enough that the couple probably thought no one was around to hear them.  
  
“Hush,” Isaac said with a muffled laugh, “or I’m going to have to hush you.”  
  
“Oh,” Richard purred, “do you really think you _can_?”  
  
The club was quiet other than a few people passed out here or there in big wingback chairs, their mouths smeared with food and their bellies stuffed. Arthur was in a similar state, bloated belly showing signs of really starting to grow (though not nearly fast enough to get him where he needed to be.) He should have been asleep too, heavily weighed down with food and too much to drink, but the tipsy lovers just visible through the open door had caught his attention.  
  
They were in the otherwise empty dining room, Isaac pinning Richard back against the lip of the table. From this angle, Arthur had a perfect view of the way Isaac’s new bulbous gut pushed against his lover’s front. Black hair fell into his eyes, a perfect contrast to Richard’s own dirty-blond. His face, still sharp-featured (though God only knew for how long) was full of an uncharacteristically gentleness, barely hidden beneath the teasing gleam.  
  
  
He knew he ought to have moved, or made them aware that he was there, but with the haze of drink, and the unexpected pleasure that came from being heavy and stuffed up round, Arthur kept his position, watching the lovers with half lidded eyes.  
  
Isaac was looking almost pregnant, so solid with food, and Richard was evidently pleased by his appearance. He could just about hear the teasing words too, blushing lightly and unable to give them privacy by looking away.   
  
  
There was something familiar about the way Richard ran his hands down and over Isaac’s packed belly. Something warm and admiring and more than a little deviant. He squeezed the flesh, giving the hard orb a careful jiggle as if testing its heft.  
  
“Look at how fat you are already,” Richard teased, voice low. “My, you’ve given up on your athletic body so easily, it’s almost as if the jock in you was dying to be a butterball all along.”  
  
Isaac smacked at him, but he didn’t try to push those wandering, squeezing hands away. “It’s your fault I’ve swollen up so fast,” he said. “The way you’re feeding me is shameful. You should be ashamed.”  
  
  
Arthur's attention was immediately piqued, watching confident hands roam over a full, round belly. His hand drifted to his own stuffed dome of a stomach, squeezing as he watched, remembering that exact situation with Alex.  
  
Arching his back to push his little gut into Alex's slender hands, long fingers pinching hand rubbing at his softness. God, if only Alex was there too, leaning over him the way Richard was over Isaac, teasing _him_ for getting fatter too. Patting his belly to test its fullness, and in one breath tutting at how the buttons of his waistcoat were one deep breath away from bursting open... And then the next demanding he eat until his clothes were in shreds around him.  
  
Arthur's imagination was running wild now, all from witnessing a plump man being groped by his lover.   
  
  
“Do you think you can handle more?” Richard whispered, sliding his hand down and around to fondle the beginning of love handles. He pushed up Isaac’s shirt a hair, revealing swollen flesh—much the same way Alex had done to Arthur all those years ago. “Why am I even asking you that? You’ve become such a little piggy; of course you can handle more. You’d eat and eat until you popped if I let you, wouldn’t you?”  
  
  
Goodness. Arthur was trembling slightly, listening intensely to the dirty whisperings.  
  
What if _Alex_ said those things to him? His sharp face surrounded by neat auburn hair, a playful smirk as he jiggled Arthur's growing belly the way Richard was with Isaac, his voice low and silky.  
  
  
“How about this,” Isaac murmured, arching up into those careful hands, pushing his belly into them. “I’ll make my way upstairs while you find a few treats for me. I promise I’ll eat every _single_ thing you bring me, even if it takes all night. Even if your little piggy pops right out of all his clothes and has to walk naked and ashamed back home—too bloody fat to fit into his britches.”  
  
Richard grinned, stealing a filthy hot kiss. “I like the way you think,” he said before pulling back. He gave Isaac’s rear a sharp smack, eyes on him as Isaac moved away.  
  
  
Arthur allowed himself a quiet, barely audible whimper.  
  
Charlie had told him he would need help to grow as fat as he was supposed to be. What if he were to get _that_ sort of help? A gorgeous man to feed and tease him, grabbing his belly and shaking it, forcing tarts into his greedy mouth while he were laid back, sprawled and indolent, wanting for nothing.  
  
_One very specific_ gorgeous man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: The weigh-in in three parts, followed by past Arthur and Alex finding each other again.


End file.
